


Fire and Fury

by Cassiopeias_Sky



Series: Fire and Fury [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alcohol Abuse, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Assault, Firefighter!Bucky, death of non established characters (including a child), description of injuries/burns, please see series tags for additional info
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 09:09:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15482448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cassiopeias_Sky/pseuds/Cassiopeias_Sky
Summary: Hi all!  This is the final part of the Fire and Fury Trilogy. This part explores more of Bucky’s relationship with his Angel in flashbacks, and is interspersed with moments from present day - similar to part 2, except this has an ending.  The song for this part is Fire and Fury by Skillet.This story is so incredibly personal and close to my heart, it’s almost hard to say goodbye to these characters. Despite the sadness, I hope you’ve all enjoyed this series and that it was as cathartic for you to read as it was for me to write.Guest starring Mina Okafor from The Resident and Bear from Armageddon.





	Fire and Fury

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This is the final part of the Fire and Fury Trilogy. This part explores more of Bucky’s relationship with his Angel in flashbacks, and is interspersed with moments from present day - similar to part 2, except this has an ending. The song for this part is Fire and Fury by Skillet.
> 
> This story is so incredibly personal and close to my heart, it’s almost hard to say goodbye to these characters. Despite the sadness, I hope you’ve all enjoyed this series and that it was as cathartic for you to read as it was for me to write.
> 
> Guest starring Mina Okafor from The Resident and Bear from Armageddon.

**Every brick and every stone**

**Of the world we made will come undone**

**If I...if I can't feel you here with me**

_Bucky’s POV, Present day_

He watches her as she sleeps.  Well, sort of.  She’s not technically sleeping, but it’s so much easier if he pretends she is, so he does.

The hours tick by; four days worth of hours, minutes, and seconds.  He knows that he should probably be at the hotel room he rented – he needs sleep and a shower – but he can’t make himself leave.  She won’t wake up while he’s gone, he _knows_ this, but still.

So he watches her, watches over her.  Keeps her safe; at least, this is what he tells himself.

He’s never felt so fucking useless in his entire goddamn life.

When he first met her, first fell head over heels in love with her, he didn’t dare hope to end up with her.  She was with someone else – _happy_ with someone else – and what right did he have to want to change that?  It royally sucked, but what could he do? Breaking up a marriage wasn’t exactly his style.

So he made himself be content with her friendship, and honestly, it was enough for him.  Not to say that he didn’t _want_ more, but having her in his life was something he deemed a miracle unto itself.  She made him smile.  She made him laugh.  She challenged him and made him think, and then rethink.  She was unfailingly supportive but at the same time she’d never been afraid to call him out on his bullshit.  She made him a better man.  She made him want to save the world, if only to make her life a bit brighter.  

And that was just the beginning.  Bucky leans back in his chair, stretching his long legs as he sifts through countless memories of her.  Over the years their friendship grew, deepened.  It took him a while to realize it, but eventually he began to understand that their relationship was everything he’d ever wanted, with the sole exception of the physical expression of love.  It seemed a small sacrifice, all things considered.  It was why he was able to accept it as it was.  No other relationship had ever come close to satisfying him the way his relationship with her did.

But then…he’d had it all. For a few brief hours on that Saturday afternoon, those precious few hours before everything went to shit, he’d had it all.  That day somehow managed to be both the best and the worst day of his life.

If he closes his eyes, he can still remember every moment of their lovemaking.  How she felt, how she tasted, how she sounded.  How she gave without holding anything back.  The surety of her touch, proving the lack of uncertainty.  The clarity in her eyes, shining brighter than they had in ages.  Her smile, full and real, hiding nothing. 

She’d glowed with…with what, happiness?  He hopes so.

Bucky stands and stretches before crossing the room to open the shades.  His Angel isn’t a morning person by any stretch of the imagination, but she loves when the sun rises anyway.   She won’t be able to see it from here, because her window faces west, but that’s okay because the sunlight will still brighten her room regardless. Besides, sunsets are her favorite. Tonight, just like has every night since she was brought here, he’ll tell her what colors make up the sunset when the day comes to a close.

**In my sleep I call your name**

**But when I wake I need to touch your face**

**'Cause I... I need to feel you here with me**

**You can stop the aching**

**'Cause you’re the one I need**

_Bucky’s POV, 3 years 6 months ago_

Bucky walks into Steve’s office and sighs dramatically as he plops into the chair across from his friend, letting his head fall back as the chair rolls slightly.  “Stevie, please just put me out of my misery.  Please.  I don’t care how you do it, just make it quick.”

Steve looks up from his reheated leftover lasagne and the never-ending pile of paperwork with a sympathetic grimace.  It took a while, but Bucky finally opened up to Steve about his feelings for his Angel.  He had to – it was either talk to Steve, accidentally let loose with a haphazard declaration of love that wasn’t going to end well for anyone involved, or explode. 

“Rough day?”  Steve watches as Bucky nods as best he can from his sprawled out position in the chair.  “You wanna talk about it?”

Bucky shakes his head; he can’t really talk about it without breaking Angel’s trust.  She’s so deeply ashamed of Jack’s drinking that he’s still the only one at the department that knows about it.  The only other person that really understands the situation is Peggy;  Bucky’d had a quiet word with her because she’s the chief of police and Jack has been involved in more than one call – despite charges not being pressed, there’s still record of him – she does what she can to keep Jack’s info quiet.  Peggy is good with secrets, and Bucky knows she’ll do damn near anything to protect Angel.

Bucky sighs again as he swings listlessly back and forth.  “Talking about it won’t change anything.  It’s just the same shit, different pile,” he mutters, being intentionally vague. Steve gets the gist, but the details make it so much worse, of course.  Jack’s been on his best behavior for over two weeks now, and it makes Bucky anxious because he knows it will eventually end; it’s hell on his nerves.  Jack’s abuse of Angel has been mental and emotional so far, but Bucky knows that it only takes one fight for it to escalate to physical abuse. He’s so incredibly worried for her safety but doesn’t know how to bring it up to her – she tries so hard to see the best in Jack that just the suggestion that he might hit her could very well piss her off.  Still, it’s a risk he’s going to have to take one of these days. 

Bucky lifts his head slightly to look at Steve and raises an eyebrow at his expression.  “What?”

Steve shakes his head, clearly reluctant to say whatever it is that’s on his mind.  “It’s nothing.”

Nothing that has anything to do with her is ‘nothing.’ “Don’t lie to me, Steve.  I can still get you in a headlock.  Don’t make me noogie it out of you.”

Steve narrows his eyes suspiciously, “You’re not gonna noogie your boss, Buck.” 

“You’re technically still on lunch, so you’re not my boss right now, punk.”  Bucky pulls himself to sit upright as he uses his heels to roll the chair forward.  “Besides, if you don’t tell me now, I’ll just crash your dinner date with Pegs tonight and bug you until she makes you tell me.” He flashes Steve a obnoxious smirk as he spins the chair in a full rotation, then two.

“You’re such a child.  You have the body of a grown ass man, but you are, in fact, a child.”

“Noogie,” whispers Bucky as he spins himself once again. “Or make your reservation for three. It’s up to you.”

“Fine.”  Steve pinches the bridge of his nose as he grimaces.  “I don’t know if this will make you feel better or worse, but Boss is in love with you, too.”

Bucky scoffs even as his heart latches on to hope. “No she’s not, she’s in love with jackass.”  He stops his spinning and reclines once again.  He can’t even bring himself to say the fucker’s name these days.

Steve shakes his head.  “No.  She _thinks_ she’s in love with him because she has no idea what real love looks like.  Her parents weren’t exactly stellar role models, you know.  Her mom stayed in the marriage out of duty while her dad steamrolled over everyone and everything in his path until he decided to leave. That’s what love looks like to her because her entire life that’s what was shown to her.  I see the way she looks at you, Buck; she’s in love with you but doesn’t know it because she doesn’t recognize it.” 

Bucky sits up and pulls at his hair, conflicted and frustrated, “So what do I do? Hope they get a divorce?  That’s a really shitty thing for me to want for her.” 

Steve shrugs.  “Look, I know I don’t know everything about her situation, and I know that you probably do. But I do know that at some point you started hating Jack.  Not dislike, _hate_.  And not out of jealously, but because he did something – I know you well enough to know the difference.”

Bucky clenches his jaw so hard it makes his teeth ache.  Because Jack did something…fuck, there are about a million _somethings_ he could choose from and Bucky honestly doesn’t know which one it was that tipped him over the edge from loathing to flat out hate.  Just the things that prick has said to Angel – he’s told her she’s worthless, that she screws everything up, that she can’t do anything right.  Six months ago he told her that she was too much to deal with and not enough, all in the same argument.  He’s got her so incredibly twisted, beaten down, and confused from his manipulation that she actually believes this is her fault – that she deserves this treatment.  But then the evenings of cruel words are followed by weeks or maybe even a month of honeyed attention and the gentle affirmations she craves before it all starts over again.  Jack exploits her vulnerabilities and insecurities on a regular basis, and she just keeps on fucking forgiving him because she’s an actual fucking angel and she loves the sorry sack of shit.

Well, either that or because she thinks she doesn’t have a choice.  Bucky’s starting to wonder if it’s becoming more the latter than the former these days.

Steve watches Bucky, seeming to get whatever confirmation he was searching for before he continues speaking, “And I know her well enough to know that something’s not quite right with her and hasn’t been for a while.  If I had to guess, I’d say that Jack isn’t the man she thought she married and that he might have some of the same tendencies as her dad.”  He puts his hands up in a gesture meant to placate when Bucky shoots him a warning glare, “You don’t have to give me details, I’m just saying that maybe she’s not as happy with him as she tries to convince herself to be.  Not all marriages last forever, Buck.  And I’ve only met him a handful of times, but Jack seems like a special kind of asshole.

“So what do I do?”  Bucky is desperate for an answer – or maybe he’s just desperate for someone to tell him that he’s not a horrible person for wanting someone else’s wife.  If he’s completely honest with himself, he _does_ hope she files for divorce.  He knows his Angel, though; she’s not ready for that. Besides, what if Steve’s wrong and she doesn’t love him?  She could leave Jack and Bucky might have to watch her fall in love with someone else down the line.  That would suck, but it might be tolerable watching her love someone else as long as she’s happy and treated right.

“I honestly don’t know.  Wait for her? You could do that, but she might never leave.  Keep doing what you’re doing and decide that you’re satisfied with your place in her life? You’ll have to figure out if that’s really going to be enough for you.  Try to move on and make something real with Erica?”  Steve shrugs.  “You’ve got options, Buck.  You just have to figure out what it is that you want to do.”

“Fuuuuuuuuck…” Bucky leans back in the chair and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes.  “Goddamn it, I wish I could just stop feeling this way, but I can’t.” 

“Ow! FUCK!”

Both men straighten at the agitated voice coming from the hallway.

“Was that Boss?”  Steve asks as Bucky rolls back and cranes his neck to try to get a glimpse out the door.

He almost rolls the chair right into her because suddenly she’s there.  

The look on her face is vaguely terrifying and her voice is tight.  “Hi, Steve.”  She pins Bucky with a pointed look.  “Bucky.  My office. _Now_.” 

And then she’s gone.

“What the hell did you do, Buck?”  Steve breathes as though he’s afraid she’ll hear him.  “She looks _pissed.”_

Bucky looks around with a lost expression on his face.  “I…I don’t know…do you think she overheard us?”

“I guess it’s possible?  I don’t know!”  Steve has gone pale.  “I’ve only heard her use that tone once, and that was after I accidentally shredded her hand-edited copy of the 80 page proposal for this year’s budget.  She worked on that thing for a month and hadn’t yet entered the changes into the word document because I told her she needed my approval on the changes first.  When I realized what I did – when _Boss_ realized what I did – my life flashed before my eyes.  I’ll admit that I had it coming, but it was a horrifying experience.  There were a few moments that I thought she might set me on fire with her eyes.”  He shudders at the memory.  “Buck, I gotta tell you – if she kills you, I don’t know if I’m gonna be able to find your body.”  Bucky’s eyes grow almost comically wide.  “All I know is that she and Pegs have been pretty ride or die lately, and that it’s been 9 years and Peggy _still_ hasn’t told me what happened with her ex-boyfriend.”  Steve leans forward and glances toward the door before whispering, “I have suspicions that she dissolved him in a vat of acid.”

_“What?”_

“Good luck, Bucky.”

“Good luck??  You’re not gonna come with me?” Bucky’s voice has gone up an octave and he’s got a death grip on the armrests of his chair.

“I wasn’t invited, and I have no desire to end up as collateral damage.”

Bucky glances at the door before looking back to Steve.  “Please?  I have no idea what I might have done, and I feel like a witness might be necessary to save my life.”  He is, of course, joking.  Mostly.

She does have a temper, although she generally keeps it tightly reeled in.  When she loses it, which has only happened a select few times since she started and has always been 110% justifiable, she’s _terrifying_.

Steve shakes his head firmly.  “Nope.”

Bucky reluctantly gets up, not wanting to keep her waiting if she’s really mad at him. But why?  What could he have done?  They were just joking around before she left for lunch – she’d even offered to grab something for him, but he’d already eaten since Clint brought in lunch to pay up for the bet he lost last week.  She couldn’t be mad about that, could she?

He takes one last look at Steve and heads to her office.

_What the hell did he do?_

Or…fuck. _Jack._

Her office door is shut when he looks down the hall; he can still hear her although it does sound like she’s trying to keep it down.  “Goddamn motherFUCKER!”  

Bucky takes a deep breath and knocks before opening the door.  “Angel?  You wanted to see me?”

She’s sitting at her desk, hunched over and frantically waving him in.  “Took you long enough!  Get in here and shut the door!” she hisses.

He does as she requests and turns back to her, drawing back a bit in surprise because she almost looks…guilty?

“Promise me you won’t tell Steve,” she whispers as she bends forward on herself just a little more.

Bucky gapes at her in utter confusion.  “Huh?”  She gives him a beseeching look, and he finds himself agreeing as confusion gives way to concern, “Okay, yeah, I won’t tell Steve.  Are you okay?”

She nods furiously, pressing her lips together as she reaches into the bottom of her shirt; Bucky’s concern grows when he notices that her shirt now has some dark spots on it that look suspiciously like blood.  He’s about to ask her about them when she starts speaking.

“I couldn’t just leave her, Buck, I _couldn’t_ but I know Jack won’t let me keep her and the vet working at the clinic in the pet supply store said to just put her back and let nature take its course because she’s so little but I just can’t do that, but the shelter won’t take her either and maybe you can give her a new home?”  Just as she finishes breathlessly babbling, she lifts her hands to reveal a tiny kitten that’s no bigger than the palm of her hand.  “I promise I’ll help take care of her.”

Bucky stares at the tiny creature as she gives out a feisty mewl much too big for her body.

“The vet thinks she’s a she – it’s too early to be sure – and that she’s probably only around 3 weeks old but it’s hard to tell because she’s so malnourished.”

He comes to her side of the desk and reaches out a finger to stroke the kitten’s little head.  “How…how did you leave for a sandwich and come back with a kitten?” he murmurs as he gives in to the urge to pick up the minuscule gray and white furball.  “And what is that smell?” he wrinkles his nose at the pungent odor.

“Pickles.”

“Huh?” He finally looks back to her.

“You smell pickles.  I found her hiding in a pickle jar in the parking lot of the sandwich shop I went to.” She rises to stand next to Bucky. “She was just lying there all alone. Please don’t tell Steve – I know he has that super strict rule about strays because Clint can’t seem to stop attracting them, but I couldn’t just leave her there.”

The kitten raises her head and makes a pitiful squeak.  “Aww,” Bucky coos, “you want to go back to Angel, little one?  I bet you do.”  He gently hands the kitten back – he could swear that she proves the truth of that nickname every damn day.  “She already knows your smell,” he nods as the kitten calms in her hands.

Angel smiles gently but there’s sorrow in her voice, “But I can’t keep her, Buck. Jack doesn’t like animals in general, but he hates cats.”  She shakes her head sadly, “It doesn’t matter how much I want her, I can’t bring her home with me.”

Bucky makes up his mind immediately when he watches Angel rub her cheek against the kitten’s with no regard to how dirty the poor thing is.  He likes cats, it would clearly make Angel happy, and he likes that it would probably piss Jack off if he knew.  Win – win.  “I’ll take her.”  

Her beaming smile could make the sun jealous.  “Really?”

He nods, and he can’t help his own dopey smile.  “Just so we’re clear, though, she’s gonna be _our_ kitten.  She’ll live with me, but she’s yours, too.”

“Thank you, Bucky.”  She looks so damn happy and he wishes he could see this side of her more often; it’s a quick peek of the woman she was when she first started at the station, back before Jack started sucking the life out of her.  “What are we going to call her?”

Bucky smirks.  “I vote for the name Pickles.”

Angel’s eyes grow wide with delight.  “It’s perfect!  And gender neutral just in case she’s really a he.” 

They’re interrupted by a knock at the door and Steve timidly pokes his head in. “Is everything okay in here?  I was concerned about Boss’ yelling in the hall but now it’s been so quiet…”

Angel swiftly turns around to hide Pickles as Bucky walks toward the door. “Yep, Steve, we’re good here. Thanks for checking but there’s nothing to worry about.”  As he speaks he begins to push the door closed – Steve has no choice but to withdraw his head or get it stuck in the door.  Bucky listens carefully to make sure Steve leaves before he turns back to Angel.  “He brings up a good point – why were you cussing in the hall?”

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry if I seemed prickly, Buck.  You must have thought I was angry.”  She gets a sheepish look on her face as she explains, “I was trying to keep her hidden, so I had Pickles stuffed in my shirt and she was scratching my stomach.  I don’t think she can retract her claws yet.”  She looks down, “The little shit actually drew blood.”

Bucky almost laughs out loud at that as he reaches to take Pickles – he really should have expected that answer.  “Why didn’t you put her in your purse?”  He holds the kitten to the crook of his neck and is immensely satisfied when she starts purring after a long moment.

Angel bites her lip as she lifts her purse to her desk and pulls out a canister of kitten formula, a feeding bottle, a few small cans of specialty kitten food, and a bottle of water.  “She didn’t fit.  I also have a cat box and a bag of litter in my car, but I couldn’t figure out how to get them in here without being noticed.”  Bucky nods as she starts reading the instructions to put together the kitten formula.  “The vet said to start small – that she might get sick if we feed her too much too fast since she’s probably been starving.”  She measures everything carefully before shaking it.  “This is supposed to be easiest for her to digest while giving her the most calories.”  She hands the bottle to Bucky, who then starts to feed Pickles. “I was told to give her this for a week, then to mix a little in with the canned kitten food for two weeks. After that, if she survives – which she _will_ so that vet and the person I spoke with at the shelter can go suck rocks – then she can transition to just the canned food.”

The poor little thing, she’s sucking on the bottle like she hasn’t eaten in a week. Then again, maybe she hasn’t.

“I’ll take her home with me when I’m done with my shifts, but we’re gonna have to keep Pickles here with us at the station during the day,” he muses as he perches on the edge of the desk, “at least for a few weeks.  She needs frequent feedings, right?”

“Yeah – at first it’ll be more often because she can only take a small amount and she has so much weight to gain, but the vet said that after a few days she should be able to eat enough to go a few hours in between feedings.”  She sighs as she sits in her chair.  “How are we going to get this past Steve?”

“Let me worry about Steve,” he throws a wink her way; Bucky knows he won’t have to try too hard – Steve would make an exception for Angel any day of the week, even on this.  He smiles at her hopefully, “Will you come with me to the pet store after work?  I know she won’t be able to wear it for a few weeks, but I’d like to get her a collar and tags.  And a carrier.”  He huffs out a gentle laugh as he watches the tiny animal eat.  “And some toys, a cat bed, and a water and food dish.”

Angel snickers as she leans forward to gently pet Pickles while Bucky feeds her, “You’re going to be spoiled rotten, little one.  You’ve already got him wrapped around your tiny paw.”  She looks back up at Bucky, “And yes, of course I’ll come with you.  We’ll have our first family outing.”

He knows that she meant it as a joke, but it doesn’t stop his heart from skipping a beat.

**I will burn, I will burn for you**

**With fire and fury**

**Fire and fury**

**My heart hurts**

**My heart hurts for you**

**Your love burns within me with fire and fury**

_Your POV, 3 years 2 months ago_

It’s calendar day.

Oh, boy.

Like so many around the country, your fire department does a yearly fundraising calendar.  Unlike most of those around the country, there aren’t several regional fire departments teaming together and competing against one another for spots in those calendars.  Your fire crew, as a whole, is disgustingly beautiful and requires no outside help to fill out the calendar pages; there’s more than enough competition within the department.  Despite not being a huge city, your town’s yearly calendar is among the most popular in the nation.

The station is almost filled to capacity with people; additional volunteers have been pulled in to cover fire calls so the photographer can get all the shots at once. It’s a busy day, but it’s a nice change of pace.

You watch the parade of human perfection in front of you.  The men cater to their audience and are all shirtless – some of them are standing in line waiting to be oiled up by one of the photographer’s assistants. Then, of course, there are the women. Nat, Sharon, Okoye, and Jessica walk by and you aren’t the least bit ashamed to admit that you did a double take; Sharon laughed and Okoye sent a wink over her shoulder, the flirty little shit. These women are _stunning_ – the competition will be fierce this year.

The calendars aren’t just a fundraiser; a month after they’re sold, there’s a voting process to choose the most attractive firefighter.  The winner gets to be on the cover of next year’s calendar as well as a solo picture on the month of their birthday and, of course, bragging rights.

Bucky has won for the past 4 years; before that it was two years of a tie between Bucky and Steve. Okoye almost won last year – she beat Steve but lost to Bucky by a whopping 16 votes.  Bucky offered to share first place but she laughed at his offer, telling him that he should enjoy his final year as cover boy.

Bucky seems to remember this conversation – he spent a _lot_ of time on his hair this morning.

It’s currently his turn in front of the camera, and you’re amusing yourself and pretty much everyone else by making faces and heckling him while he tries to pose.  

“You’re making it very hard to smolder, Angel!” he laughs as he tries once again to school his face into something serious.  

“Then try harder, Barnes! You don’t want to disappoint your fans, they’re counting on your pouty lips and baby blues!”  You do your best southern belle impression, “Whatever will they do if you don’t smolder?”

“Well, we’re gonna find out if you don’t let me get serious!”  He shakes his head and shifts his grip on the fireman’s axe he’s holding. 

“Hey, all you gotta do is channel your inner hussy!  WWBDD! What would Blanche Devereaux do?” He and the photographer both burst into laughter once again at your antics.  “Come on now, Buck,” you begin to clap your hands for emphasis, “think skanky thoughts!”  

Manny, the photographer, smirks at you.  “If you ever find yourself looking for a change of pace, darling, let me know.  I’ll hire you as my assistant in a heartbeat – you manage to get the best reactions out of people.”  He leans toward you and whispers, “For the record, I think this year we will feature Mr. March smiling.  He’s smoking hot when he smolders, but there’s something completely irresistible about him when he’s smiling at you.”

You…wait, what?  Manny just winks at you and turns back to his camera. 

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

You don’t get the time to think on it too long.

“What are they doing?” An irritating voice attached to an annoying person appears next to you.

It’s a genuine struggle not to reply with a snarky retort.  What’s it look like they’re doing, dipshit?  Milking cows?  “Distracting me from work,” you sigh.  You didn’t know Erica was going to stop by for the photo shoot.  She’s just…exhausting.  

“I don’t know how you do it, sweetie.  I wouldn’t get anything done if I worked here.”  She fluffs her hairs then adjusts her bright pink top to show off her ample cleavage.

Be nice, she’s Bucky’s girlfriend, be nice, she’s Bucky’s girlfriend…even if she is dumber than a box of hair, be nice, she’s Bucky’s girlfriend…

“Mmmm, I’ve never seen Steve with his shirt off,” she gushes, and a sideways glance tells you that she’s not so subtly drooling over the fire chief – with her boyfriend 15 feet away.  “I bet he could bench press me without a problem.”

You roll your eyes as you fold your arms.  According to Bucky, he doesn’t have the time to dedicate to anything more than what he has with Erica, which is little more than a monogamous-friends-with-benefits-emphasis-on-the-benefits type relationship.  He also serves as her arm candy for occasional functions, such as weddings and her work parties.  Their arrangement seems to work for them – he’s too busy and she’s too shallow for anything else.  Still, you’re protective of him and you can’t help but feel that he deserves so much better than someone that would openly gawk at one of his best friends in his presence.    

“God, look at the biceps on that man…I can’t imagine how strong he is,” she giggles, fanning herself dramatically before readjusting her shirt again, pulling it down so much that her bust is almost falling out of it; she keeps glancing Bucky’s way the entire time she does this.  You’re about to ask her what the hell she’s doing, because she’s usually not _quite_ this obnoxious, when it hits you – she’s trying to make Bucky jealous.  Is she starting to catch feelings, real feelings, for him?  

If that’s the case, you _almost_ feel bad for her but it doesn’t excuse her behavior.  The way she’s so casually talking about Steve as though he’s nothing more than fodder for her daydreams grates on your nerves, especially considering that she’s already _got_ the equivalent of a Greek god a couple nights a week.  “Well, Bucky’s actually the stronger of the two when it comes to brute strength.” Take that and stuff it, you swampy little twat.

“What?  No.”  She looks at you before looking back at Bucky.

“Yes, actually.  See the differences in their physiques?”

Erica giggles annoyingly, “Well, I see a lot that I like, that’s for sure.”

You hold back your sigh of irritation.  “Okay, so you notice that from the armpits down, Steve tapers but Bucky is more or less straight?”

“Mmm hmm…”

You school your voice carefully to not sound patronizing.  “Bucky has more core strength; you can see it in his build. He’s got more muscle supporting his spine, sides, and front, which dramatically increases his overall ability to lift.  Steve, on the other hand, isn’t built that way.  Not to say that he isn’t strong – because he is and freakishly so – but he can’t lift quite as much as Bucky can, and he’s more likely to get hurt if he tries because he doesn’t have the same amount of muscle supporting his midsection.”

“Really?” She watches you nod before continuing. “Huh.  I guess I’ve got the prize after all.”

Really?  He’s just a prize to her?  That’s your best friend she’s talking about.  You smirk as you decide it’s time to turn her world upside down. “Well,” you begin in a sugary tone, “You see Bear over there?”

Erica follows your gaze but of course she’s confused.  “Bear?”

“The tall, dark, cool drink of water standing over by the table with the snacks?”

“The fat guy?”

Your eye twitches at her small-minded assessment.  Fat? Seriously?  Sure, he’s huge, but he’s built like a brick shithouse.  “Um, well, first of all, Bear isn’t fat.  He’s barrel chested.   He’s also the strongest man on the entire fire crew.”  

She watches him with barely disguised disgust and it’s all you can do not to reach over and throttle her. Bear earned his nickname because he’s fucking ginormous, but he could be called Teddy Bear because he’s easily one of the sweetest, most genuine, and most selfless people you’ve ever met in your life.  

“So, how do you know all of this?  Do they record their lifting weights or something?”

Her question touches on a sensitive issue with you – something you aren’t willing to share with Erica.  Your education was just another sacrifice you’d made for Jack.  There’s another plausible explanation, though, so you go with that instead of ignoring her question.  “Well, some of the crew really gets into the World’s Strongest Man competitions – it’s almost impossible to get away from it during certain times of the year.  You just pick up on stuff.”

“So…so the winners of that don’t look like Steve?”

“No,” you shake your head. “Most of the elite competitors are thick and stocky, like Bear.”

“Huh,” she mutters, but then turns on a toothy smile as Bucky approaches, apparently finished with his photo shoot.  “Hey, babe! You’re looking mighty fine today.”

“Thank you,” he shoots a quick smile her way before facing you and cracking open the can of soda in his hand.  “The photographer finally gave up and told me that I would have the only smile in the calendar.  That’s your doing, you know.”

You shrug as you smirk, “You make it so easy.”

Erica glances between you and Bucky with a look on her face that reminds you of a toddler that just had her toy taken away; the indignantly possessive look is not a good look on her. You haven’t figured out yet if something has changed and she wants his affection, but it’s becoming very clear that, today at least, she wants his attention.  You suddenly remember that Bucky cancelled on her twice last week to hang out with you instead, although you hadn’t known at the time that he’d originally had other plans.  Well, shit, that explains a lot.  

“Bucky,” she coos, clasping her hands around one of his arms, “I bet you could lift me with just one arm. I only weigh 100 pounds, you know.”

You shouldn’t say it, but sometimes your mouth is faster than your brain.  “Yeah, in your bra,” you snark under your breath.   

Bucky had the unfortunate timing of taking a drink at that moment, and he heard you.  Coke went spraying _everywhere_.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Erica glances at you before looking disdainfully at Bucky, who is now trying to get his coughing laughter under control.

“I said you look beautiful today!”  You put on your brightest, fakest smile, just for her.  

“Oh, well thank you, sweetie!”  Erica giggles as she flips her hair back.  “I just got my hair and nails done, and I’m feeling pretty good about myself right now!”” 

“Oh my God,” Bucky snickers, and you dissolve into laughter along with him.

Erica just stands there, looking confused.  It’s a good thing she’s pretty. 

* * *

When you get back to your office after the photo shoot is finally finished, there are two cans of your favorite soda on your desk along with a note from Bucky:

               ‘You got her with not one, but TWO lines from Liar Liar.  You are my hero.

PS that new movie came out last week – I’m off and I know you’re flying solo tonight so I’ll pick you up at 7:30    ~B

Shaking your head, you smile as you gaze at the picture of the two of you with Pickles sitting at the corner of your desk next to a picture of you and Jack.  “I’m _your_ hero?  No.  Not as much as you’re mine.”

**If I freeze you are the flame.**

**You melt my heart, I'm washed in your rain**

**I know you’ll always have the best of me**

_Your POV, 2 years 11 months ago_

The phone ringing at 3:24 am almost makes you jump out of your skin.  Your intuition is already screaming - it’s not going to be good news.  Jack hasn’t come home for the past 3 days, and you haven’t even spoken with him recently.  Calling the restaurant does no good because even though they will tell you he’s there, they won’t transfer the call – sometimes it’s because he tells them he’s too busy, and other times it’s because they’re protecting their friend from his overbearing nag of a wife.  Overhearing _that_ did not make your day, to say the least.

He’s on one hell of a bender.

Jack claims he’s been staying with his co-worker Simon because he’s ‘tired of your endless bitching’ about his drinking, but you’re not so sure.  Something tells you that he’s actually with Liza, one of the waitresses, but you can’t prove anything because his car hasn’t moved from the restaurant parking lot.

You hate this – this isn’t what you wanted for your life.  This isn’t what marriage is supposed to be, is it?  For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, till death do us part. Then again, maybe it’s exactly what marriage is and they threw in the better and health to make it sound less like a death sentence. 

You heave a sigh as you roll over to pick up your phone, squinting at the bright light in the dim room.  Somehow, seeing this name pop up on your display at this hour is infinitely worse than seeing Jack’s.

“Steve?  What’s going on?  What’s wrong?”  It comes out as a rushed ramble as you sit up and swing your legs over the edge of the bed.

“Boss \- it’s, it’s…”  He sounds like…like he’s gasping for air?  He’s not even supposed to be on tonight, so if he’s at a call, it’s bad.  

“Steve, take a deep breath…there you go…now another…” It amazes you how calm you sound because you really want to puke.  A shaking hand grips the phone harder as you pray that he doesn’t say the name of the one person you can’t handle losing. 

“It’s Bucky…” Steve’s voice breaks on the name of his best friend, and every fiber of your body goes ice cold.  

_No no no no please God no…_

“There was a fire call, a three alarm for the bakery on the corner of 27th and Main,” he manages to get out.  “There was someone trapped in the apartment above the bakery, and Buck went in.  And the building…it’s old…the second and third floors collapsed…”

“Steve, is he –“ You swallow hard, close your eyes, and try to remember how to breathe.  “Did Bucky get out?”  

It feels like forever passes before you get an answer.  “Yeah, Buck got out.  He’s alive but…he’s hurt, Boss.”  Steve’s voice, normally so full of confidence and competence, sounds small.

Bucky’s _alive_.

It kicks you into motion – you jump up and go to the closet to pull out some jeans.  “Where is he now?”

“He’s getting loaded into the ambulance.”   Another long silence.  “He’s asking for you.”

You finish pulling on your jeans and switch your phone into the other hand so you can shrug into your hoodie.  “I’m on my way, I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

* * *

“James Buchanan Barnes.”  You’re breathless from the sprint through the parking lot, and the nurse looks at you with concern and slight confusion from the other side of the desk; you’re visibly trembling and your voice is shaking, so she probably assumes you’re here for you.  “Please,” you rattle off his name and date of birth, “where is he?”  You eyeball the locked double doors leading back to the patient rooms in the emergency department, wondering if you could just force one open and find him yourself.

“Ma’am?  Are you okay?”  The nurse is using a tone meant to soothe, but you aren’t having it.  Not now, not tonight.

“No, I’m not!  Please!  I’m looking for James Buchanan Barnes; he was brought in by ambulance, he probably just got here a little bit ago.”  You’re trying to hold yourself together because you’re in the ER waiting room – everyone here is already anxious enough without hearing you lose your shit – but if this nurse doesn’t start tapping away at her keyboard to find the information you need, you’re going to hop over the goddamn desk and do it yourself. “JAMES.  BUCHANAN.  BARNES. MARCH 10th –“

“Boss.”

The nurse and you both turn toward the now open double doors, where Steve has suddenly appeared.  He’s in sweat pants and his favorite jacket embroidered with emblem of the station, and his hair is sticking up in every direction.  He must have been sleeping when he got the call.

Steve comes to you and pulls you into a tight hug that does nothing to stop your shaking.  “He’s gonna be okay, Boss.  You hear me? He’s tough.”  You cling to Steve’s whispered words like a lifeline.  “Buck is hurt pretty badly, but he’s gonna make it.” Steve grasps your shoulders and takes a step back so he can meet your eyes.  “He’s asking for you – says he needs his Angel.  When you get in there, it’s gonna look bad.  It _is_ bad, but Buck’s gonna get through it.  You gotta be strong for him.”

Nodding, you can’t help but wonder if Steve’s trying to convince you or himself.  

“They’re in the middle of triaging him – he’s in room 23.  Go see him. When they bring him back for surgery, come back out here and I’ll tell you what I know.”

He turns to face the nurse.  “Ma’am?  She’s with me.  She’ll need a visitor’s pass.  And when you get a minute, please send registration out to talk to me.  I’m the patient’s emergency contact, but he wants to add her as well.”

“I’m sorry, Fire Chief Rogers, but that’s not protocol –“

You don’t bother to stick around for the rest of their conversation; someone else is exiting though the double doors so you slide around Steve and slip through before the nurse can stop you. You follow the signs to find room 23; it’s obviously one of the high priority rooms because it’s right next to the nurses’ station.  Two nurses walk out just as you walk in.

Bucky is still – so incredibly still – when you enter the room.  You approach him slowly to give yourself a chance to take in what you see.  He’s got an oxygen mask covering the bottom half of his face, there’s an IV in the crook of his right arm, and from the waist down he’s still in his turnout gear.  His chest rises and falls erratically with his breathing…oh God, his chest.  The cotton shirt that Bucky wears under his bunker coat is soaked with sweat on his right side, but the shirt blackens and disappears halfway across his chest.  You have to swallow against your tears as your eyes go from his chest to his shoulder, then to his neck and down his left arm.  The skin is mottled and red; in some places it’s grotesquely swollen and blistered, and in others it’s black and you’re not sure if it’s because the skin is charred or if it’s stained from the smoke.

“Bucky?”  

His eyes open at your strangled whisper, and he lifts his right hand to remove the oxygen mask.

“No, Buck, leave it there.”  You take his hand in yours and gently straighten his arm to help him avoid any discomfort with his IV – as if he’d even notice that with everything else going on. 

He mumbles something – it sounds like your nickname but his voice is too muffled with the mask for you to be sure.

“Shhhh…we’ll talk later, alright?” you soothe as you reach your left hand up to brush some hair back from his damp forehead; he’s squeezing your right hand to the point of pain, but you don’t care.  

“I’m sorry ma’am, but you shouldn’t be in here,” a nurse with a long, black braid strides in with a laptop on a cart and approaches Bucky’s left side.

Bucky turns his head toward the nurse and shakes it slightly; the nurse lifts his mask slightly and you can hear Bucky mutter hoarsely, “She stays.”

She looks toward you with raised eyebrows before replacing the oxygen mask.  “Well, alright then.  My name is Nani, I’ll be finishing up with triage.  I take it you’re family?”

“Um, sort of?  He’s my best friend.”  

“How well do you know him?”

You’re taken aback by her question until you realize what it is she’s asking.  “Really well. We’re not just friends, I also work with him.  Part of my job is to manage employee files, so I’m familiar with his health history.”

“Good, that’ll make this easier.”  Nani looks down at Bucky.  “Just nod yes or no, hon.  Can she answer some personal health questions on your behalf?”

At his nod, she begins.  You answer her questions regarding allergies, previous surgeries, and medications.  Yes, his last physical was within the past year; your department is very stringent on following NFPA’s requirements.  No, there were no abnormalities or concerns; all lab work was normal.  Yes, he’s undergone the recommended cancer screenings. 

She finishes entering the information before turning her gaze back to you.  “Thank you. Do you happen to know what he’s wearing under the…” she gestures to his lower half, “I just realized that I have no idea what those pants are called.”

“It’s called bunker or turnout gear.  Bucky wears a cotton layer under it – they’re basically long johns – and socks that come up to his knees.  Nothing that will melt, so no polyester or anything like it.”

“Good – that’s exactly what I needed to know.” She glances at the clock on the wall as three more nurses enter the room.  “Alright, I have to bring him back to prep for surgery now.  When he’s done, someone will bring him to a room in the ICU.”

Taking a deep breath, you look down to meet his eyes. “Okay Buck, I’ll see you in a little bit.”  He nods, and you see a tear fall; he’s scared, and you wish for nothing more than to take his pain away.  Hell, you’d trade places with him if you could.  “Hey, you’re going to be okay.”  He nods again as you brush the tear away with your finger.  “I’ll be here waiting for you, okay?  So will Steve and Sam.  We’re going to get you through this.”  Bucky squeezes your hand, and you bend down to press a kiss to his clammy forehead.

The thought that this could very well be the last time you see him whole invades your mind, but you push it down. No.  NO.  He’s going to be fine.  And if he isn’t…well, you meant what you said.  You’re going to get him through it.

One of the other nurses goes to the head of Bucky’s bed, and after a few loud clunks begins to move the bed forward.  You can’t help yourself – you reach out to Bucky’s outstretched hand for one last squeeze.  Your eyes stay trained on his until the nurse wheels him around the corner.

Tears are making it hard to breathe again, so you clear your throat as you turn back to Nani with a tight smile.   “Thank you for letting me stay.”

“You’re welcome.”  Nani bites her lip as she walks with you to the door.  “May I say something?”  At your nod, she continues, “He kehau ho`oma`ema`e ke aloha.”

You tilt your head, grateful for the distraction even though that probably wasn’t her intent.  “It sounds beautiful.  What does it mean?”

“It’s an old Hawai’ian proverb.”  She nods, almost like she’d just had something confirmed. “I…I don’t usually tell this to my patients or their loved ones unless I know for sure, but I believe he’s going to be okay.”

God, you really needed to hear that.  “Thank you, Nani,” you breathe.

She smiles at you one last time before following her patient down the hall.

* * *

It’s been two hours since they took Bucky back for surgery, and you’re staring at the wall going over the information Steve gave you.

Bucky’s burns are slightly less than 20% of his body, so he shouldn’t have to be transported to the Chastain Burn Center unless the areas of 3rd degree burns exceed 5%.  The doctors had decided to take him into surgery for the cleaning and debriding process since the burns cover such a significant portion of his body; putting him under will, of course, be much more comfortable for him than doing it while he’s awake.  They will then be able to fully assess the extent of his injuries after the wounds have been cleaned and the unsalvageable skin has been removed.  If necessary, they will amputate his arm.   

_He’s alive he’s alive he’s alive he’s alive…_

Well, if there’s any good that’s come out of countless sleepless nights stressing about Jack, it’s that you’re handling yourself relatively well in this situation, all things considered.  That is, until you’re sitting between Steve and Sam in the garish lights of the waiting room, and the sudden realization hits you with perfect, devastating clarity.

You’re in love with Bucky. 

Well _shit_. 

How the hell did you not realize this before!? It takes everything in you to push down both the sudden awareness of your feelings as well as the accompanying guilt.  Apparently Jack’s right – you’re the whore of Babylon.  

Except you’re _not_ , because you’ve been faithful and will continue to do so. Being in love with Bucky doesn’t change anything between you and Jack – he’s your husband and you made vows.  You love Jack, maybe not as easily as you evidently love Bucky, but still.  You’re going to keep your promises.  And maybe what you feel for Bucky isn’t romantic love after all – it’s so different from what you’ve ever felt for Jack – maybe it’s just really strong love between friends that was intensified by this horrible situation.  Maybe it’s just a crush.  Maybe you’re lying to yourself to try to get rid of the guilt.

Deep down, you know the truth.  

Apathy sets in next, much quicker than should be expected.  Whatever. Jack hasn’t been home in days and is probably in someone else’s bed right now, so why worry about feelings you won’t act on?  Besides, you have far more important things to worry about right now than your stupid, inconvenient feelings.

* * *

_5 days later, your POV_

When you let yourself in you’re not greeted by Bucky but rather by Pickles, who is alternately purring and meowing plaintively as she begins rubbing against your legs. You put your things and the care package from the fire department on the kitchen counter and pick her up to look for Bucky.  The lights are off, the shades are shut, and the tv is off, but you finally find him in the living room sitting in the middle of the couch, unmoving in the stillness of early evening. 

“Where’s Erica?”  You leave the rest unsaid: And how _dare_ she leave you here alone like this? You’re not his girlfriend’s biggest fan on the best of days but realizing that she left Bucky alone while he’s in pain and not exactly fully mobile has severely pissed you off.

“She, uh, she left.” He won’t meet your eyes.

You put Pickles down and walk slowly toward him. “She left.”  You know exactly what he means, and you aren’t surprised in the least. That fickle _bitch_.

He nods – he doesn’t look sad, exactly, but you can’t place the look on his face.

You glance at the clock - it’s a little after five, and you know the nurse that was scheduled for last night’s overnight was done at 8:00 this morning. Erica was supposed to take over after that because Bucky isn’t supposed to be left alone for the next week.

Taking deep breaths to keep your anger in check, you open the shades to let in some light. “Buck,” you keep your voice gentle because it certainly isn’t him you’re mad at, “When’s the last time you ate?”

He just shrugs with his good shoulder. 

“When’s the last time you took your pain meds?”

Another shrug. 

“Okay then, first things first,” you mutter, more to yourself than him.  You go to his pile of prescriptions and pull out what he needs, taking care not to slam things around in the kitchen because by this point you’re mad enough to throw things. How fucking could she??  How could she do this to him? He hasn’t eaten or taken his prescriptions so you’re damn sure his bandages haven’t been changed, either. There’s a fucking _reason_ why he’s not supposed to be left alone for his first week out of the hospital!  He shouldn’t even _be_ out of the hospital yet, but he’d pulled some strings…

Taking another deep breath to gather yourself, you pick up your phone and dial the number to his favorite Chinese restaurant.  After ordering a ridiculous amount of food and promising a healthy tip for quick delivery, you pick up the pile of pills, a handful of the cookies you brought that you’d baked last night when you couldn’t sleep, and a Powerade from the fridge before heading back into the living room.  

Bucky hasn’t moved an inch.

“Alright Buck,” for his sake you force a cheerfulness into your voice that you certainly don’t feel, “here are your meds and something to drink,” you place the cookies on his knee as takes his pills and then the drink you offer, “and I want you to eat those cookies so your meds don’t make you nauseous.  They should hold you over until dinner gets here.  I’m going to wash my hands and grab the stuff to change your dressings.”

By the time you get back he’s done as you asked but is still staring blankly at the dark tv. 

Placing the supplies on the coffee table, you carefully help him out of his zip up hoodie before removing his bandages and cleaning his wounds the way you were instructed at the hospital yesterday morning, and then again at work today by Steve.  It’s got to hurt, but he doesn’t so much as flinch. You take your time, being as gentle as possible as you apply the silver sulfadiazine and bacitracin.

It’s hard to comprehend as you gaze at the extent of his injuries, but it actually could have been much, much worse.  Most of his burns are classified as deep partial thickness second degree burns, although there are a few spots of third degree burns.  He’s still technically at risk of losing his arm from infection, but at least the damage wasn’t significant enough to immediately take his arm, and as long as he receives the proper care he _should_ make a full recovery other than the scarring. That, unfortunately, is an inevitability – there’s only so much they can do about the cosmetic aspect of his injuries. 

“Buck,” you begin softly as you finish up with applying the last piece of gauze, “I’ve either talked to you or texted you almost every hour today.  Why didn’t you tell me that Erica wasn’t here?  I would have come sooner.  Have you been alone all day?”  You, Steve, and Sam had already decided to cover the gaps when Bucky would otherwise be alone, but that only works when you know he’s alone.

His jaw clenches a few times before he speaks. “Yeah.  She…she called a few hours ago to tell me that our relationship wasn’t serious enough for her to put up with someone so damaged.”

You finally place the expression on his face – _shame_ – and everything goes red.  How fucking _dare_ she treat Bucky this way? 

“She wished me luck, though. She said there’s a kink for everything, and that maybe I can find someone with a...shit, how did she put it...a ‘Freddy Krueger arm kink.’

Speechless.  You’re absolutely speechless.  And _livid_. How could anyone be so cruel?  It was usually pretty obvious to you that they weren’t in love, but you’d have thought that after over 2 years together that there’d be some sort of loyalty or friendship at least; you knew there was on Bucky’s side.  When Erica had her wisdom teeth surgically removed, Bucky had taken a few days off from work to take care of her.  Now that it’s her turn to return the favor, she can’t even sacrifice 8 hours of her life. You’re going to rip that callous twat’s shitty, cheap hair extensions out the next time you see her _._

Bucky still won’t look at you.  It takes an enormous amount of effort, but you put your rage aside.  You can think about all the awful things you want to do to her later – right now your best friend needs you.

He’s shivering, so you slowly and carefully help him back into his hoodie before kneeling on the couch to his right.  “Bucky, look at me.”  Your thumbs caress his cheekbones as you gently take his downcast face into your hands. 

For a long moment he doesn’t move, doesn’t even seem to breathe, but then he finally allows your soft touch to guide his gaze to yours.

“You know that other than not being straightforward about Jack’s alcohol abuse that I’ve never lied to you, right?”

Bucky nods, turning his eyes down again.  

“Sweetheart, look at me.” You wait to speak again until he does. “Buck, you’re beautiful.  Inside and out, scars and all.  In fact,” you pause for just a moment to tuck some hair behind his ear, “I’d argue that those scars will make you even more attractive, even _more_ gorgeous, because they mean that you were willing to sacrifice your life to save another, and you _survived_.  And so did the man living above the bakery.  He’s alive because of _you_ , Buck.  Youwent in to get him, and when the building collapsed, you shielded him with your body until Okoye and Sam got to you.  What you did was brave, selfless, and just…just _incredible_. So while _Erica_ ,” you can’t keep the venom out of your voice as you say her name, “might not be able to see that, because she is hideous and mean and didn’t for a moment deserve to share even one second of your life, it will be glaringly obvious to anyone worth your time that you are strikingly, painfully, and breathtakingly handsome, inside _and_ out.”

He shakes his head slightly but doesn’t speak.

“Hey, I’m not blowing smoke up your ass, Buck.  I’m completely serious.  And I know it’s going to take time – time to heal and time to get used to how things have changed – but I’m going to be here every step of the way.  Which means I’ll be here to remind you of how good looking you are, and I’m going to keep saying it until you believe it, over and over if necessary.”  You add some dramatic flair for extra effect, “I will be a broken record telling the world OVER AND OVER AGAIN of the legendary handsomeness of one James Buchanan Barnes; in fact, you should probably consider this my new part-time job.” 

He finally cracks a smile. “That might get annoying.”

“Probably,” you shrug, “but it could always be worse. I _could_ make you sing ‘I Feel Pretty’ every time you start feeling down about yourself.  Or ‘I’m too Sexy,’ just saying…and if you refuse, I’ll just have to sing it on your behalf.  Loudly and off-key.” __

Bucky snorts out a laugh – he knows you’ll do it.  “I’m so incredibly lucky to have an angel as a best friend, you know that?  Because that’s what you are.”

You roll your eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t fall on the floor.  “You’re such a sap, Barnes.”

He chuckles softly as he pulls you in for a one-armed hug, and you tuck yourself into his side and put your feet up on the coffee table next to his.   “Thank you, Angel,” he whispers before pressing a soft kiss into your hair.   The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Bucky speaks again. “It was never really gonna work out with her anyway, so it was just a matter of time until she moved on.  I wasn’t in love with her and Pickles _hated_ her.”

“Maybe so, but that doesn’t give her the right to be such a bitch about it.”  

“Well, to be fair, I _did_ accidentally call her by another woman’s name in bed,” he admits sheepishly. “Again.”

You turn slowly to stare at him, and the incredulous grin growing across your face gives away the lie of your chastising tone, “Bucky.”

“What?  It just slipped out!”

You shake your head, laughing.  “Are you a rookie at this or something?  If you’re going to think of someone else, and I’m totally not judging if you do, use pet names!  Babe, honey, sexy, sugar… literally _anything_ other than an actual name.”

“You act like you’ve got experience in this,” he grins, and the sparkle is back in his eyes and you can’t help but match his grin. 

“Well, yeah,” you admit, “Jack isn’t exactly stellar in bed when he’s drunk.  So yes, I’ve imagined other people to get through it, but I’ve never called him by the wrong name.”  Even if you did, he probably wouldn’t remember.

Well, no, scratch that. That would be the _one_ thing he’d remember, and you’d never live it down. 

The mood has suddenly turned somber with the mention of Jack’s name, and you can feel Bucky watching you. “He still hasn’t come home, has he?”

“Nope.”  You can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes, “He told me two days ago that they were sending him to a restaurant in another city to train in a new manager.  He came home while I was at the hospital with you – he thought I was at work – and packed a bag to make it look good.  But when I drove past the restaurant on my way here today, I saw him standing by the back door smoking a cigarette.”

“Angel…I know I don’t usually say anything because I just wanna be supportive, so I’m gonna blame it on the pain meds because I can’t hold this in anymore.”  He takes a deep breath and swallows.   “You deserve better, _much_ better, than that asshole.”

Smiling sadly, you nod. “Maybe so, but I made a promise. ‘In sickness and in health.’  He’s sick, Bucky.  And it really, really sucks, but I made a promise.  Besides, I can’t help but wonder if my mom would have gotten better, faster, if my dad had stuck around.  And I just… if I left Jack, I’d be no better than my dad.”

“Your ma has been sober for years,” he points out, “and she did that on her own.  Your dad is still an active alcoholic.  He can’t help himself, he sure as hell wasn’t gonna be able to help your ma.  And Angel, no matter what you do, you’ll never be like your dad.  He left because he was selfish.”

“Wouldn’t me leaving be just as selfish?”

Bucky shakes his head. “No, because you _tried_ – you’ve given Jack everything.  Your dad didn’t do that for your mom.  If you left, it wouldn’t be because you gave up, or because you didn’t think he was worth the bother.  If you left, it would be because you had enough, and because it was time to save yourself.”

He’s right. You _know_ he’s right.  But still, leaving Jack just isn’t an option.  You love him, you tell yourself, but lately you can’t help but feel like you’re trying to convince yourself of that more often than not.  

Bucky takes a deep breath, almost like he’s bracing himself, before speaking again, “Angel, I know there’s someone in this world that would jump at the chance to love you right, to make you happy.  You _deserve_ to be happy.”

You smile at him and tell him part of your complicated truth, “I _am_ happy, Buck.  I mean, yeah, okay, my love life sucks.  Badly.” That’s the understatement of the century.  “But Jack and I do have our good days, and I have an awesome job and amazing friends. Seriously, I work with a group of people that are basically family.   And I have _you._ ”  You shrug.  “As important as marriage is, it’s not everything.  I’m more than fulfilled in every other aspect of my life.”  And you are – realizing your feelings for Bucky made things difficult until you realized that you’d been in love with him for quite some time, and if that was the case, nothing had to change.  You could just keep doing what you were doing before – you can’t have more, but you won’t have less as long as Bucky doesn’t find out, and as long as you have Bucky, you can survive Jack.

Bucky opens his mouth to say something, but the doorbell rings. 

“It’s about damn time,” you grumble as you carefully untuck yourself from under Bucky’s arm and stand, heading to the door to get the food.  

“Sorry Buck,” you call from the kitchen a minute later, setting the bags on the counter so you can grab what you need, “what were you gonna say when the bell rang?”  He doesn’t generally say much on this topic, choosing instead to just support you, so you’re really curious. 

Or maybe you’re hoping he’ll tell you what you refuse to tell yourself. 

It takes him so long to reply that you think maybe he didn’t hear you.  “Uh, it’s nothing.”

You shrug as you begin a very delicate balancing act.

Bucky laughs when you come back, watching you juggle two plates, chopsticks, silverware, two bottles of soda, napkins, and three large bags of Chinese food.  “There’s just the two of us, how much food did you get?”

“Enough to feed myself and a ginormous man that not only has an impossible metabolism and hasn’t eaten all day, but who will also likely have a massive case of the munchies in the near future.  You’ll thank me later.”

He watches you as you set out the food and begin making him a plate with generous portions of his favorite dishes.  “You don’t have to wait on me, Angel. It’s enough that you’re here.”  He’s quiet – not insulted, but maybe a little defeated by your actions. 

Not bothering to stop what you’re doing, you merely shoot him a sideways glance as you reply, “I’m not waiting on you, Barnes.  You fix your plate like you’re trying to win a decorating contest, and it takes forever – and that’s with two good hands!  I’m starving and would like to eat within the next 20 minutes, so I’m really doing this as a favor to myself.”  You hope you answered nonchalantly enough to convince him – he really does need the help but you’ll have to be careful not to make him feel helpless. 

“What?  I do _not_! I –“  He sounds positively offended and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing; good, your strategy worked. 

“Yes, you do!  Why do you think everyone tries to beat you to the line when we have potlucks at work?”

He blinks comically before answering – it’s pretty clear he’s not one hundred percent sure he has the right answer.  “…because I eat a lot?”

“No!  It’s because you dish out your food with the precision and care of someone diffusing a bomb. Buck, I’ve watched you spend like 8 minutes stacking chicken wings as if you were building a log cabin with them.”

His mouth falls upon and his eyes narrow.  “That’s not for decoration, that’s _strategy_.  I call it Heap Management 101.”  Bucky sits up a bit straighter and you immediately recognize the intense look he gets when training new volunteers.   “When there’s a lot of good food, you gotta stack up to maximize the surface area of the plate.  And there are certain foods that don’t play well together, so they need a buffer zone, and…oh my God, that’s why everyone always tries to cut in front of me.”

You burst into laughter at his revelation and the mortified look on his face. 

“Why didn’t you tell me I was so annoying?”  He looks horrified, but you can’t stop laughing.

“Aw Buck,” you manage to get out, “this is old news to everyone else – we mostly find it endearing now.”  You pause to wipe the tears from your eyes before placing his now full plate on the coffee table in front of him. 

“Endearing,” he repeats, casting a baleful glance your way.

You nod, trying to hide your grin at the way he pouts.  “We wouldn’t have you any other way, I promise.”

You don’t miss the small smile on his lips.

* * *

You jump at the soft knock and feel a warm weight launch off your hip.  What the hell?  Oh, right…it was Pickles.  She came in for snuggles after you went to bed.  You’re still a bit disoriented so it takes a second for you to remember where you are, both because you were sleeping so hard and also because you aren’t in your bed at home.

You sit and reach for the bedside lamp, fumbling in the dark.  The guest room in Bucky’s home is significantly darker than your own bedroom, and you when you finally manage to switch the light on you have to blink until your eyes adjust.  

Damn, you haven’t slept this well in ages.

After finding out about Erica, you quietly texted Steve to let him know and then arranged to work from home – well, Bucky’s home – tomorrow.  Neither of you are about to take any chances with Bucky’s health or safety, so when the overnight nurse called in sick and said there wasn’t anyone available to cover her shift, it just made sense to stay the night in his guest room.  

It’s not like Jack is going to miss you.

Looking toward the door, you see Bucky standing there, bathed in the gentle light.  He looks awful, and you immediately rise to go to him.

“I’m, uh, I’m really sorry to wake you Angel, but, uh,” he sniffles, and you realize he’s holding back tears.

“Bucky,” you murmur as you cross the room, “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

A single tear falls and he swallows hard.  “It just…fuck!  I rolled over in my sleep.  Onto my left…my left side.  It really –“ he takes a shaky breath, “it uh, it hurts really fucking bad and I was wondering, um,  if you could keep me company…”

“Hey, hey,” you soothe, “of course I’ll sit up with you.  That’s why I’m here, Buck.  Meds, food, company, anything you need.”  Careful to avoid his injuries, you gently pull him into a hug.  He’s really pale and feels clammy, so you put a hand up to his forehead to check for a fever, just in case.  So far so good.

“Where will you be most comfortable?”

“Huh?”  He looks at you with miserable eyes.

“Where will you be most comfortable?  Your recliner isn’t going to work because there’s too much contact with your shoulder and back, but maybe the living room couch?  Your bed?”

“I…probably my bed, but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Ever the gentleman. 

“Sweetheart, you won’t make me uncomfortable.”

“Are – are you sure?”

“Bucky,” you murmur, “I think I’m safer with you than I am with anyone else.  I won’t be uncomfortable, I promise.  I just want _you_ to be as pain free as possible.”

He ducks his head a bit as he nods.  “Okay.” Another shaky breath.  “Thank you.  I’m really sorry about this.”

“Hey, stop it.  You do _not_ need to apologize.  I already told you, this is why I’m here.  Now go back to your room.  I’m gonna grab my phone and something to drink, and then I’ll meet you there.”

He nods woodenly and does as you ask.  Grabbing your phone, you see that it’s just after 2 am, which means he’s about a half hour away from his next dose of pain meds.  Fuck it, it’s close enough.  You grab them while you’re in the kitchen and set up a new reminder on your phone for the next dose before going to his room.

You find him sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched over in the flickering light of the muted tv. His suffering is so plain to see that you can’t help but wonder if maybe you should take him back to the hospital. 

“Hey,” you quietly announce your presence as you walk in.  “Here, I brought a little something for you.”

Bucky looks up at you and takes the offered meds.  “Thanks, Angel.”  

“You’re welcome,” you murmur, heart twisting at the agony in your best friend’s voice.  You’ve burned yourself before, of course, but never severely and your burns were usually pretty tiny.  Still, you remember that they hurt like a bitch – you can’t even begin to imagine how he must feel.  

Taking a step closer, you tuck a bit of his sweat damp hair behind his ear and he leans forward a bit, resting his head against your stomach.  When you put your hand on his good shoulder, gently rubbing his back in soothing circles, you can feel how he’s trembling and it kills you that there isn’t more you can do to ease his pain.  It’s just not fucking fair.

You stay like that for a long moment, waiting for his breathing to even out.  “Let’s try to get you comfy, okay?”

He nods and and stands before reaching for his hoodie, which doesn’t make sense.

“Buck, are you sure you want to wear that right now?  Won’t it just rub the bandages?

He avoids your eyes. “Probably.  But you shouldn’t have to look at this,” he gestures to his burns as he speaks.

“Sweetheart,” you breathe, “I told you before – you’re perfect.  That hasn’t changed in the last 8 hours.”  You take the sweatshirt from his hand and fold it before putting it on his nightstand.  “You need to be comfortable, Buck.  And not that it matters in the slightest because seriously, fuck anyone that has an issue with them, but I don’t mind looking at your burns.  And when they’re healed,” you start getting choked up, but unlike with Jack you don’t care if Bucky can hear the vulnerability in your voice, “I won’t mind looking at your scars, because to me they’re proof that you’re alive.  I hate that you hurt, and I’d do anything to take that away from you, but I’m just glad you’re still _here_.”

Bucky swallows hard, “I guess I’m just feeling sorry for myself.”

“Hey, that’s perfectly understandable and I fully respect how you feel, I do, but I’m still going to do everything I can to make you see what I see when I look at you.”  You give him a gentle smile as you fold down the dusky blue duvet before straightening his steel grey sheets.  “And when you’re not looking, I’m going to change your phone’s ringtone to Sexy and I Know It.”

“Don’t you dare.”  He sounds serious, but the corners of his lips are turning up and the relief almost makes you lightheaded.

“Oh, I dare,” you smirk. “Now climb into bed and get yourself comfortable.”

“You’re so bossy.”

“Yeah, well…” you shrug nonchalantly, “there’s a reason why most people I work with call me ‘Boss.’”

Bucky smirks at you as he gingerly gets into his bed, lying diagonally across the middle so he can face the TV and still leave you with some space next to his head. 

An idea hits you as you watch him struggle to get comfortable.  “I’ll be right back!”  You run into the guest room and return with all the decorative and functional pillows from the bed.  

“Are you gonna smother me?” He sounds both amused and suspicious.

“Um, no.  Not yet, anyway.  Lift your left leg up.”  His eyebrows go up, but he does as you ask and you place a poofy square pillow between his knees.  He stays motionless until you laugh, “You can lower your leg now, you dork.”  

“What are you doing?”

You place one of the regular pillows at the small of his back, gently pushing it in so it fits snugly against him but also making sure that it doesn’t rub against any of his bandages.  

“I’m making you comfortable and also making it almost impossible for you to turn over in your sleep. Okay, I’m going to help you lift your left arm now…”  you tuck another overstuffed pillow into his chest and guide his arm to rest across it before walking to the foot of the bed so he can see you.  “Do you need another one under your head?”

“Actually, I think I’m good.”  He sounds pleasantly surprised.

“Alright then.”  You gently pull the sheet and duvet up to his waist before climbing in next to him.  He takes up so much space that the top of his head is resting against your thigh as you sit against the headboard, but it’s comfortable enough.

“What do you want to watch?” You pick up the remote and start flicking through channels but stop as you both yell out ‘Twister!’ when you see Helen Hunt and Bill Paxton on the screen.

You watch the movie for a while, absentmindedly running your fingers through his hair.  It feels so natural – so _comfortable_ – sitting here with Bucky, and you find yourself wishing that this was your norm, that _this_ was your everyday life, and not Jack.  And if you’re completely honest with yourself, it isn’t that you don’t love Jack – because you _do_ , if you didn’t then his actions wouldn’t hurt so much – it’s just that whatever this is with Bucky is so much easier.

You look down at the man that shouldn’t have such a grip on your heart.  “How are you doing?  Are the meds kicking in yet?”

“Not really,” he mumbles, “but with you here I at least have a distraction instead of lying here alone with nothing else to think about but the pain.”  It’s quiet save for the movie, and you almost miss it when he whispers, “Do you really not care about how ugly my arm is now?”

He can’t see it, but you shake your head.  “Your arm isn’t ugly, Buck, it’s a badge of courage and selflessness.”  You keep your voice soft when you add, “Someday you’ll see it too, and then no one else’s opinion will matter.”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever see it.  God, it fucking hurts.”

There’s got to be some way to keep his mind occupied…“Hey, you know what my sister in law told me?” An idea is taking form – a good idea. You think.

“What’s that?”

“She was complaining about her shape; she’s built like a beachball on pool noodle legs – her words, not mine – and she was getting frustrated with feeling like she had to wear big, ugly clothes to hide herself.  Then one day she decided that she was done with frumpy clothes.  She picked up some new outfits that actually fit, and a couple of belts even though everyone told her she couldn’t wear them.  She wore them anyway and said that if she can’t hide her belly then she might as well decorate it.”

Bucky snorts out a laugh. “Okay.  Does it work for her?”

“She’s usually the best dressed in any given place, and damn if she isn’t one of the most confident women I know.”  You shrug. “What if, when you’re done healing, you got some ink?  Decorated your arm, so to speak?  Would that make you feel better about the scarring?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and you wonder if maybe you went too far with your suggestion.

“I could sleeve my arm, couldn’t I?”  For the first time, you think you hear a little bit of hope in his voice.

“You could, if that’s what you wanted.”

“Would you help me pick out the designs?”

“I’d be honored,” you murmur as you dig out your phone.  “What are you thinking?”

You can hear the smile in his voice, “I – I don’t know yet.  But I really think I want to do this.” 

“Clint and Sharon are going to be so pissed,” you snicker as start scrolling through pictures of tattoos.

“Why’s that?”

“Because tattoos are fucking _hot_ , and now they’ll _never_ be voted the sexiest firefighter in the calendar.”  You let out an almost evil cackle, “They’ve been trying to dethrone you for years.  And, oh God, do NOT tell Nat this was my idea!  She’ll kill me and they’ll never find my body.”

“You…you really think I should still do the calendar?”  He sounds so unsure.

“Of course I do!  Bucky, I really cannot overstate this – with or without scars or tattoos, you are obnoxiously attractive.  There would be a public outcry if you didn’t do the calendar.”

“I think you overestimate me.”

“I think you underestimate yourself,” you reply immediately, although there’s no sting in your retort.

He sighs, and it’s obvious that he’s trying to sound annoyed, but he really isn’t.  “You really aren’t gonna let me trash myself, are you.”

“Nope.”  Looking down at him with a smirk, you croon, “I feel pretty.”

“No.”

“Oh so pretty…”

“Oh God, stop,” he chuckles.

“I feel pretty and witty and GAAAAYYYYYYY!”

“Okay okay fine!” he laughs, “You win!  I’m sexy and I know it!”

“Now _that’s_ the Barnes I’m used to.” When you lean forward, you can see the edge of his smirk.  “Alright, you gorgeous studmuffin, picture this,” you hold your phone into his line of sight to show him the image on your screen, “a dragon sort of like this, with wings extended, holding the insignia for our fire department.”

What you can see of his smirk turns into a full-fledged smile.  “On my bicep.  Surrounded by flames because I am a goddamn firefighter.”

“Damn right you are.”  You carefully conceal your sigh of relief – it was in the back of your mind that he might not want to return to his current line of work.

“I think – I think I want to do a few different pieces that have a similar theme instead of one solid design.  Does that make sense?”

“It does.  It would also allow you to do it one section at a time instead of trying to plan it all at once.”

He brings up a few more ideas, but within a few minutes they begin to slow down.  Ten minutes later, he’s sound asleep.  Pickles comes in shortly after that and settles herself in your lap.  You lean back against the headboard as you watch a bit more of the movie before joining them in slumber.

**Destiny’s got a hold on me**

**Guess I never knew love like love knows me**

**'Cause I... I need to feel you here with me**

_Your POV, present day_

The early afternoon sunlight streams in through the window in Bucky’s bedroom, illuminating the intense blue of his eyes as he lies next to you in bed.  He’s still breathing hard – you both are – as you face each other and hold one another close.  Neither of you has said much since the conversation in the kitchen other than to ask again if the other is sure or to whisper the other’s name.  This wasn’t planned, but it certainly isn’t on your list of regrets, either.

It feels right.

Your hand comes up to rest over his chest.  Beneath the intricate tattoo of an angel rising out of the flames, surrounded on either side by a smaller eagle and falcon, you can feel the steady rhythm of his heart.  This tattoo, the first one he got, is the only one you hadn’t helped plan.  You’d been speechless when he’d shown it to you and then told you that his best friends deserved a place over his heart. It never occurred to you to wonder if it meant anything more; perhaps it should have.

Bucky smiles as though he can read your mind and is pleased by what he finds there.  His hand covers yours before lightly grasping it to raise it to his lips.  He plants a kiss against your palm, and then the pulse point on the inside of your wrist before you wrap your arms around his neck.  Bucky moves and so do you, meeting halfway with a searing kiss that is both tender and consuming.  You can feel him moving inside you before he grabs you tightly and shifts, moving to his back and pulling you on top of him with your knees on either side of his hips, before shifting once again to sit up.  You wrap your legs around his waist as he holds you close and kisses you until you’re delirious.  

It’s one of your favorite memories.

At least, you think it is. It’s getting harder to tell reality from fantasy these days.  Hours. Minutes.  Seconds.  Infinity. 

The good and the bad memories play against the screen of your closed eyelids; no matter how hard you try, you just cannot open them.  You’d thought you were dead at first, until the incessant beeps registered in your consciousness as medical equipment.  

That’s right – you’re in the hospital.  You don’t know exactly why, other than it has to do with something Jack did.

There’s no sense of time here.  You’ve no idea how long you’ve been floating, remembering.  Hurting, especially the searing headache.  Occasionally hearing, although you aren’t sure if it’s real or if you’re dreaming.  You are, however, pretty sure that the green polka dotted horse that visited and spoke Italian was a dream.  A strange dream, but a dream nonetheless.

Bucky’s voice grounds you and makes you try - try to wake up, or even just try to respond.  Your mom’s voice does the same, although hers is less frequent.  You don’t blame her.  Hospitals are tough for her, and you’d rather her be sober than be by your side – and she knows this.  Her love for you isn’t in question.

Bucky talks about whatever seems to come to mind; music, his strong opinions on the hipster haircut, the food in the cafeteria, the goings on at the fire department, and what he wants to do when you’re better.  He’s doing it right now.

“Godsmack and Shinedown are touring together.  I hope I’m not stepping on any toes here, but I bought us tickets for when they come close; of course, we’ll still have to drive a few hours to see them, but it’ll be worth it.  It’s still three months away, but I wanted to get them before they’re sold out. Already cleared it with Steve.  I think it’ll be fun.  We could even make a long weekend out of it and visit that zoo I told you about a few months ago.”

Another voice comes in and you don’t recognize the voice of the woman speaking.  She has a lovely accent, though.

“We’ll begin tapering the anesthesia in two or three days, depending on the level of swelling in her brain.   It appears to be coming down, which is, of course, a good thing.  In theory, if there isn’t any brain damage, she should wake up shortly after the drugs stop being administered.  It’ll take just a bit for her body to finish metabolizing what’s already in her, but she hasn’t been in an induced coma long enough to make waking up too difficult.  The bigger obstacle to her regaining awareness might not be the anesthesia but the medications we’re using for pain control.    Again, that’s if there isn’t any brain damage.  I understand that you want to remain optimistic, but I encourage you to be realistic.  There is a very real risk here.”

“So we just wait?” Pain and hope mingle in Bucky’s voice, and you want to reassure him so badly.  You’re right here!  But it doesn’t matter how hard you try, you just can’t, and the harder you try the harder it becomes to focus.

“Yes.  Keep doing what you’re doing – talk to her, hold her hand, play music for her.  There is no scientific evidence supporting these activities as being beneficial for the patient, but there is no evidence against it, either.  And although I tend to only believe the things I can touch, see, or measure, I have had too many patients tell me that they had some amount of awareness while in their coma to completely disregard it.”

Bucky is saying something, but you can’t really understand it because you’re falling asleep. Maybe.  You aren’t really sure you were awake to begin with.    

**I will burn, I will burn for you**

**With fire and fury**

**Fire and fury**

**My heart hurts**

**My heart hurts for you**

**Your love burns within me with fire and fury**

_Your POV, 8 Months Ago_

It was a bad call.  A _really_ bad call.  Someone from dispatch called to let you know what to expect when your crew returned – this morning’s crash on the highway left 7 dead and 4 critically injured.  A woman lost control of her car and ended up crossing the median; according to the descriptions given by the only survivor in that vehicle, the best guess is that the driver had a stroke while behind the wheel.  She hit a minivan head on, which was then struck from behind by a semi hauling a full load.  The driver of the semi had tried to stop but jackknifed, hitting another car and being hit broadside by three more, one of which ended up completely under the trailer.

It was a worst-case scenario and a plot of nightmares – four of the deceased were children.

On days like this, you do everything you can to take care of the people that have become your family, which is why it isn’t at all uncommon for members of the crew to find their way to your office.  They go to one another for shared frustrations and empathy but come to you for compassion and normalcy.

Steve is in the middle of his visit; he’s asked about your day so far, if you have any plans for the weekend, and if Peggy can get the recipe for your salted caramels.  You gave him detailed answers, knowing that he needs calm distraction and talk of everyday life to pull him out of his role as fire chief so he can be Steve; the team needs a friend and comrade right now, not a boss.  On days with bad calls, he always ends his visit with a special request.

“Hey Boss, I know it isn’t in your job description, but could I get you to make some cookies?”  He asks the same way every time and you’ve never said no, no matter how busy you were. It’s a little something to bring a bit of warmth and comfort to the firehouse when things go to shit, and you’re more than happy to do it. 

“Of course I will,” you answer gently.  He already knows you will, but the polite request is just part of how he does things.  Now you have to find out whether there’s a certain kind he wants you to make – specific requests are Steve’s way of letting you know that someone took a call particularly hard.   “I can make more than one kind, if you’d like.”

He smiles at you gratefully.  “That’d be nice.”   _They’re having a tough time with this one._  

“What kind would you like?”   _Who’s hurting the most?_

“White chocolate macadamia nut would be good.”   _Natasha._ “Maybe some of your special chocolate chip cookies.  Those go over so well, you might even want to make a double batch.”   _Bucky and Sam._ Steve swallows hard.  “If it isn’t a bother, those toffee crunch cookies you make would be good, too.”   _Me_. 

It’s not often he makes a request for himself.

“It’s no bother at all, I’m happy to do it.”  He flashes a grateful smile and turns to leave.  “Hey, Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll be in the kitchen anyway…would you like me to make a big pot of soup?  I think we have everything here for tortellini.”

”You know what?  That would be really nice.  I was planning on buying everyone pizza, but if they have a choice I know they’d rather have your soup.”  Steve scratches his head as he sheepishly grins.  “Putting you in charge of keeping the kitchen stocked is probably one of the best decisions I ever made as fire chief.  We eat better, and the stove actually gets used.”

“Well, considering most of these guys basically live here a few days a week, I’d have to agree with your assessment.  When you stocked the kitchen, it was all energy bars, frozen meals, canned chili, and tabasco sauce.  Firefighter or no, a person can only eat so much chili.”

Steve smiles, and it’s the lightest smile you’ve seen from him since before he left this morning.  “So I’ve been told.  What would we do without you?”

“Survive on chili laced with tabasco sauce and pray to God that the city council doesn’t ask for any of your budget and expense paperwork?”

He looks like he’s going to argue your point, but then he just shakes his head. “I can’t even disagree with you, Boss.” Steve looks down for a minute before turning his eyes back to you.  “Thank you.” _For taking care of us._

He means more than what he’s saying, but by now you’re fluent in Steve and you know what he means.  “You’re welcome.  Now go find Bucky and Sam.”   _They need you, and you them._

Steve leaves, and you quickly assess your workload for the rest of the day. There’s nothing pressing for today or tomorrow, and you’re already finished with your daily tasks.  Sometimes you actually manage to impress yourself with your time management.

Sam brings you out of your thoughts with his gentle knock against the doorframe. “Hey Boss, can I have a word with you?”

You take a double take when you see who it is; it isn’t that you aren’t happy to see him – Sam is one of the usual visitors – but you were expecting the knock to come from someone else.  It’s a bit strange that Bucky hasn’t come by yet.   “Of course, Sam.  What’s up?” 

“Um, it’s Bucky,” Sam begins hesitantly, and you’re already halfway out of your chair. “I think…I think he needs his Angel.”

“What’s wrong?  Where is he?” 

“In the shower in the men’s locker room.”

You stop and stare at Sam.  “The shower?”

“Yeah,” Sam nods.  “Buck’s hiding.  We do that sometimes, when we can’t...” Sam looks down at his feet, shifting almost uncomfortably, “he’s taking this morning’s call really hard.  I tried talking to him, and so did Steve, but he isn’t having it.  He won’t hide from you, though.”

It’s an informal and unspoken but very real rule in the firehouse.  Given what they do and the traumas they sometimes witness or endure, it’s important to have a buddy system in place to catch each other when – not if – someone falls.  When you’re in the business of saving lives, you have to make sure you save one another first. 

“Ok, I’m on it,” you nod as you circle your desk and exit your office.  “Can you, uh, clear a path for me?”

Sam matches your stride as you walk to the locker room.  “What, not in the mood to see a bunch of naked butts?”  He tries to joke, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“It’s not the butts I’m worried about,” you mutter as you stop at the door.

Sam goes in and comes out just a moment later.  “Clint’s the only one in there, and he’s already dressed.  I’ll put a sign on the door to tell everyone to keep their pants on.”

You gently grab his arm before he can leave.  “Thanks for getting me, Sam.”  He nods slowly as you speak again, “Go talk to Steve.  You need it, too.  And you know where to find me if you need to talk later.”

Sam pulls you into a tight hug, “Thanks, Boss.”

He opens the door for you and you step into the locker room.  It smells like a mix of cologne, soap, and sweat - exactly the way you’d expect it to smell.

“He’s in the last shower stall, closest to the back wall.”  Clint looks up at you from the sink – his eyes are rimmed with red. Not for the first time, you wonder how these wonderfully brave people you work with can do this job – the things they see must fuel their nightmares, yet they unfailingly return to work for their next shift with a smile and the goal to save the world.

“Thanks. Hey Clint?”

He swallows hard before answering.  “Yeah, Boss?”

“Go find Nat.”

Clint nods – he knows exactly what you mean.  “We’re meeting in the kitchen in five minutes.”

You nod and keep walking.  Not knowing what to expect, you grab a towel before heading back into the showers. One of them has running water, and the closer you get to the back of the room the more sure you are that it’s the stall Bucky’s in.

The glass door swings open when you knock, so you peek in.  What you see breaks your heart.

Bucky has the water on, but he’s fully dressed and huddled in the corner of the stall under the spray.  His head is resting on his knees and his hands are in his hair as if he’d been pulling on it but then gave up.  

Alright…first things first.  You reach over to turn off the water, realizing as you do so that it’s freezing. Bucky doesn’t move, he doesn’t even look up.  

His shoulders are shaking, although whether it was from his grief or from cold you don’t know.  It doesn’t matter anyway, you suppose; when anguish is bad enough it feels the same. 

You step into the shower stall before unfolding the towel and draping it over his shoulders, then lower yourself to sit next to him on the wet tile floor. Moving slowly and deliberately, you put your arm behind him and begin rubbing soothing circles on his back and shoulders.

“Sam is such a fucking nark,” he mutters in between uneven breaths.

“You know he’s basically obligated to tell me,” you murmur, knowing that he isn’t really mad at Sam, he’s just upset.  “You want to talk about it?  Or do you just want to sit here for a while?”

“You’re getting all wet.”

Okay then, sit here for a while it is.  “Lucky for you I’m both washable _and_ dryable.”

The two if you sit in the quiet of the empty locker room; the only noise is the gentle drip of water from the shower head and his intermittent sniffles. Bucky stares at the floor for a while, then wipes his face with the back of his hands.  “I couldn’t save her, Angel.  I tried so goddamn hard, did everything I knew to do, but I couldn’t save her.”

His words are met with silence.  It’s not easy for you to keep quiet, but it’s what he needs.

“She, uh, she was still alive when we got there.  We could hear her crying.  It took us almost 45 minutes to get her out of the back of that van – the vehicle was unrecognizable.  It’s amazing she wasn’t killed on impact.  Her car seat being properly installed is the only reason she survived as long as she did.”

Car seat…one of the children.   _Oh God._

His voice cracks as he speaks, but he keeps going, “I knew she was bleeding, but I couldn’t…with the way the roof had been caved in, we had to use the jaws of life to get to her, but we had to go slowly or we’d risk hurting her even more. I couldn’t reach her.  I tried – I just – I couldn’t reach her.  If I could’ve gotten close enough to her when she was still in the van I could’ve stopped the bleeding.  I could’ve stopped the bleeding, but I just…I just couldn’t reach her.”    

Your sorrow joins his in the tiny space, and you have to swallow hard against the tears that want so badly to fall.  Tears for Bucky, tears for the little girl.  Tears for the family.

He slowly shakes his head.  “She’d been bleeding too long…lost way too much blood for such a tiny body.  By the time we finally got her out she was barely hanging on.  I cut her out of the car seat, but it was too late.  I tried, Angel, I promise I tried, but nothing worked.  I just – all I could do was hold her as she died.  I don’t think she was even two years old.”

Hot tears find their way down your cheeks as you shift to pull Bucky close.  He twists, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your neck as he lets go and allows the grief to consume him entirely.

“I’ve got you, Sweetheart, I’ve got you,” you murmur, crying with him as you hold his shaking body; you can’t help the tears with how badly your heart aches for him. “I’ve got you.”

It takes the better part of a half hour for him to cry himself out.  When he finally pulls back to look at you for the first time, his face is red and puffy, but he doesn’t seem quite as broken.  His hand reaches up to cradle your cheek as his thumb wipes away a tear.  “You helping me cry, Angel?”

“I guess so,” you whisper with a shrug and a small smile.

He almost returns the smile as he unfolds himself and stands.  “Only you.  I don’t know what I did to deserve a friend like you.” 

Watching him and almost feeling annoyed at how gracefully he can move even after sitting on a cramped tile floor, you slowly stretch your cold muscles before taking his offered hand to help you up.  “The feeling’s mutual, you know.”

Bucky pulls you into a bone crushing hug.  “Thank you.”

You return the hug in kind, “Hey, like I said, I’ve got you.  Always.”

The two of you stand like that for a moment, squeezing the daylights out of each other; Bucky to remind himself of life and how precious it is, and you to reassure him that yes, you are there, alive and well.

Then Bucky chuckles.  “Ew.”

You pull back just a bit.  “What?”

“Angel…you’re _soggy_.”

“You’re not exactly a sunny summer day in the Sahara yourself, Buck.”

He chuckles again, and it’s freer this time even though his eyes remain haunted. “No, I’m not.  I should probably take a shower, a _normal_ shower, and change into some dry clothes.”

“That’s _exactly_ what you should do. Then you should meet me in the kitchen because I have cookies to bake and a pot of soup to throw together and I’d like some company.”

Bucky nods his head slightly, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

You give him one last squeeze before you reluctantly pull away so you can head to the lockers.  “I need to change, too.  Like you said – soggy,” you make a face as you finish speaking, because now you’re acutely aware of how gross you feel.

“You have clothes in your office, right?  If not, I’ve got some you can use.”

“Thanks, Buck, but I’m good.  I’ll see you in the kitchen in ten?”  He nods, and you exit the locker room and head to your office.  

Bucky had suggested a while ago that you store some extra clothes just in case there should be a time when you didn’t want to go home.  It was the cause of the first and only fight in the history of your friendship; he’d said that you should have an overnight bag packed and kept here just in case Jack became physically violent during one of his drunken rants.  You, of course, were furious.  Jack might not be the greatest husband in the history of marriage, but he’d never physically hurt you and the insinuation that he might lay a hand on you pissed you off to no end.  You didn’t talk to Bucky for almost a week.  

The fight with Bucky ended on a Thursday night – technically early Friday morning – when Jack came home drunk.  Again. Jack didn’t hit you, but the things he’d said made you wish you’d taken Bucky’s advice and packed a bag.  A physical beating probably would have hurt less than the things he’d said to you; he preyed on your insecurities and then confused and manipulated you like a puppet master with a doll.  Jack’s verbal assault only escalated when you tried to grab enough stuff to get through work the next day, and you ended up leaving the apartment with nothing but your keys.  You went straight to the fire station – you have the security code and had every intention of taking one of the free bunks in the women’s sleeping quarters – it might mean involving more people with your secret, but you were beyond caring that night.  

God, you’d wanted to call Bucky, but you couldn’t.  Well, you technically _could_ have, but you were ashamed; not just because of Jack, but because Bucky was right.  He was right – to a point, anyway – and you’d been mad at him for telling you an uncomfortable truth.  A truth you still couldn’t believe was real, that Jack would hurt you enough to make you run away until he sobered up, but truth doesn’t depend on belief to exist. It wasn’t fair to call Bucky at butts o’clock in the morning after the way you’d given him the cold shoulder for the past few days.  “I’m such a shit,” you’d muttered to yourself as you entered the building code and made your way to the women’s dorm.

But Bucky was there.  He’d switched shifts to take someone else’s overnight, and he was in the hall after having gone to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water.  He found you and led you back to his office, where he sat you on the couch and covered you with the blanket he kept for when he was supervising overnights but wasn’t able to fall asleep in the men’s dorm.  He held you as you cried, shushed you when you apologized, and stayed with you until you fell asleep.  When you awoke with the early morning sunlight shining through the slotted shades, on top of his immaculately clean desk there was a piece of paper with your name on it leaning against a fresh bottle of water and a brand-new fire department hoodie.  When you unfolded it, you saw that it was not only in your size but also had been personalized with your name embroidered under the department’s crest on the top of the left sleeve.  You’d wanted one but couldn’t afford it with Jack’s ever-increasing bar tabs; Bucky must have guessed and snuck it in the last order.  Then, when you finally left his and entered your own office, there was a white paper bag sitting on your desk; an apple fritter from the truck stop. Bucky did so much for you that night but never once said ‘I told you so.’  

It was the first time you’d left during a fight with Jack, and it was the beginning of drunk Jack hating Bucky for no reason other than Bucky happened to be there for you.  It was an ugly weekend filled with new, ugly accusations.

When you came to work the following Monday, you brought an overnight bag.  

It serves you well now, not that you’d ever planned on using it after sitting in the bottom of a wet shower.  For Bucky, though, you’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Finally in dry jeans and a t-shirt, you make your way to the kitchen and start gathering the ingredients for the first batch of cookies.  Bucky joins you a moment later and pulls out the big stand mixer from under the counter – the one they’d pooled their money to buy after learning that you knew how to bake without relying on tubes of refrigerated cookie dough.  

The warm smell of cookies starts wafting through the building a half hour later, and those that aren’t out on calls start wandering in.  Nat and Clint find their way in first – they don’t say anything, but Nat’s eyes are puffy and rimmed with red.  They sit at the big table that separates the kitchen from the large living area; they’re quiet, but they didn’t come for the conversation.  They came for companionship and for the simple comfort of the smell of baking cookies.  Steve and Sam soon join them at the table, still somber and grief stricken but committed to moving forward because that’s what they must do if they want to be able to save the next life.  More footsteps, more people.  The heavy atmosphere lightens a bit when the first batch of cookies comes out.  Voices begin murmuring, then talking. Eventually, after everyone is seated around the table to enjoy the first bowl of soup, someone laughs.

You know that this morning’s losses will follow them around for a while, and you know that losing that little girl is something Bucky will carry forever.  All you can do is try to ease the weight of the loads they carry.

Firefighters are a resilient bunch.

They have to be. 

**Let it all fall down to dust**

**Can’t break the two of us**

**We are safe in the strength of love**

**You can stop the aching**

**'Cause you’re the one I need**

_Bucky’s POV, Present day_

They stopped the anesthesia 7 hours ago.  Since she hasn’t yet awoken, the neurologist has been paged.

Bucky hasn’t left her side all day.

“I love you.  I don’t know why I didn’t say it,” he mumbles.  “I think maybe I was just afraid to scare you off – you’d been through so much already, I didn’t want to add to it.  For fuck’s sake, you’d just decided you wanted a divorce the same morning.  But I can’t help it.  I love you. I’ve loved you since the day I met you.” Bucky stops to rub his eyes, “I should have said it.”  He gently places her hand on her stomach and covers her with the thin blanket, then folds his arms next to her and resting his forehead in the crook of his elbow. He knows he’s repeating himself, has been for the past few days, but he can’t stop; he could lose her tomorrow if he hasn’t already.  “I should have said it; you deserved to hear it.  You deserved to _know_.  I’m so sorry, Angel.  I love you.”  A tear makes his way across his skin, but he doesn’t care.

“You didn’t have to say it, Buck.  I already know.”  

His eyes snap open but he doesn’t move.  Her voice is raspy with disuse, but if this is real, if she _really_ just spoke and this isn’t just wishful thinking or a hallucination borne of lack of sleep, then it’s the best damn sound he’s ever heard in his life.

It isn’t until he feels a soft touch against the back of his head does his heart accept that this might be real.  Slowly, he turns his head and her hand shifts until she’s cradling his cheek.  Her head is tilted toward him, but her eyes are still closed.  “I feel it in every touch and I see it in your eyes.  Have for a long time, just didn’t realize what I was looking at.” She’s speaking slowly, but she’s moving and _speaking,_ and now she’s sluggishly but tenderly running her fingers through his hair.  Her eyes finally crack open, and he doesn’t look away as he turns his head slightly to kiss her palm.  “I love you, too.” 

Bucky watches her, wanting to memorize every second of this.

Her eyes slide closed, as if the effort of those few words has completely exhausted her, but then her nose crinkles up.  “Your hair is really greasy,” she huffs, but Bucky knows it was meant to be a laugh.  “When’s the last time you showered?”  She coughs, grimacing at the pain, and swallows thickly before speaking again.  “You’re lucky you’re so pretty that you can actually pull off the grunge look.”

The comment is so perfectly _her_ , so in line with her gentle teasing and pragmatism, that his face almost hurts because he’s smiling so widely.

“Aww, you think I’m pretty?” 

“Oh my God Barnes, don’t act like you don’t know you’re the hottest person in the room 99% of the time.”

He’ll never know why that was the final straw, but with that sentence the last remaining shreds of his strength disappear as he finally allows himself to break under the stress of the last week, knowing that the only person that has ever really been capable of putting him back together is right there with him.

His Angel.

“Oh shit…Buck…”  She struggles to move herself, and the exertion causes an increase in her heart rate which sets off the monitors.  

“Angel, you gotta lie still,” Bucky manages to get out through his tears, not at all ashamed of her seeing him cry.

“Then help me move over.” She’s tiring so she sounds even weaker than before, but there’s no mistaking the resolve – and Bucky knows better than to defy her when she has that tone, so he carefully does as she asks.

“Get up here with me,” she whispers, eyes closed.

“What?”

She forces her eyes open as she lifts her right hand, using her thumb to wipe away some of his tears. “I said get up here with me.”

Bucky does as she asks, slowly and taking care to avoid jostling her or any of her various leads or cords and being sure not to add any pressure to her ribs or abdomen.  He lies on his side and rests his head on her uninjured right shoulder as her hand comes up to rest on his head, softly stroking his hair as he lets out his pent-up emotion.  He wants to hold her tight but keeps one arm tucked under himself as the other rests gently over her hips; the fingertips of her left hand meet his and gently take hold.

“I thought I lost you.”

“Nope,” she murmurs. “Never.  You’re stuck with me.”

The sound of the door quickly opening makes her flinch as several nurses enter the room.  “She’s awake!  Page Dr. Okafor and –“

“Please go away.”  Her quiet request stops everyone in their tracks.

“Ma’am, you just _woke up from a coma_ , we need to – “

“Can’t you see we’re having a moment here?”  She coughs again, cringing at the pain before opening her eyes.  “Owie.  Just…give us a half hour, please?”

Bucky will never know if it was the feeling behind her request or the sight of the ginormous man ugly crying into her shoulder, but one of the nurses finally concedes somewhat.

“How about a compromise. Just me, everyone else out.  I’ll get your vitals and then leave you two alone until your doctors get here.”

It takes her a few seconds to respond, almost long enough that they start moving forward, but she finally speaks.  “Fine.” 

She lies so incredibly still as the nurse does his job, Bucky starts to wonder if he’d dreamed the whole thing.   He lifts himself up on his elbow and wipes a sleeve across his face, doing what he can to stay out of the way but not willing to part from her just yet.

The nurse starts tapping away at the computer on the other side of the bed.  “Are you in any pain?”

Bucky’s heart sinks when she doesn’t answer right away.  But then, so faint he wonders how the nurse hears her, she hums a response, “Mmm hmm.”

“Okay, can you tell me what hurts?”  The nurse watches her carefully as he types away.

“Everything above my hips.” She keeps her eyes closed, as if she’s too tired to even bother.

The nurse cracks a smile. “Care to be more specific?  Where exactly and how badly on a scale from one to ten?”

“And Angel,” Bucky gently interrupts, “when you measure your pain, don’t compare it with what it could be if you were also hit by a car at the same time.  With what you’ve been through, it would be normal for your pain to be high – they need to know how bad it is so they can treat it.”

“She does that?”  The nurse almost looks alarmed, and Bucky smirks.

“Yeah.  She was at work and ran into a door that someone was opening from the other side – gave herself a concussion and a black eye.  When I treated her, she said her pain level was at a 3 and then promptly threw up.  I asked her why she said it was only a 3, and she told me that it could be much worse – like if she had hit her head and was then attacked by a moose.”

“Jesus,” the nurse mutters as he shakes his head.  “We get patients that tell us their pain is at a 10 when they come in for a damn papercut, and here she is, downgrading her pain because of a hypothetical moose attack.” He turns and lays a gentle hand on her arm.  “Be honest now, so I can help you feel better.  What hurts and what number?

Like before, it takes her a bit to answer, but she finally does even if it is slowly.  “Mmmm…my stomach.  Maybe a 4.  My chest…on the left…a 7.  My shoulder is at a 9, and my damn head is throbbing with a stubborn headache that won’t go away.  I’d rate that fucker at a 12.”

Bucky and the nurse look at each other then back to her.  “Angel, what do you mean ‘a stubborn headache that won’t go away?’  How long have you had it?”

“I dunno.  Feels like forever.  A few days, maybe?  I can’t tell.”

“How long have you been awake?”  The nurse is staring at her intently.

It takes her longer to reply with every question.  “I…I don’t really know.  I could hear things, but I couldn’t open my eyes or do anything.  Felt trapped.  It sucked.” She swallows hard and continues, “I don’t know what changed, I tried to talk a little bit ago and it finally worked.” Her eyebrows draw together although her eyes remain closed.  “Did I miss Godsmack?”

“You heard that?” Bucky breathes, waiting for her confirmation.  When she gives the tiniest nod, he looks at the nurse, “That was three days ago.”

The nurse nods as he types. “We hear that more often than you’d think.  It’s why we encourage people to talk to their loved ones.  There isn’t a scientific explanation for it, but there’ve too many patients that know things they shouldn’t know unless they were awake to hear it.” The nurse finishes entering his notes, tucks the keyboard away, and leaves to get something for her pain.

Bucky allows himself to fully rest next to her once more, still fighting the urge to hold her tightly. 

“Bucky?”  Her voice sounds so small, but it’s _there._

“Yeah, Angel?”

“I’m so tired.”

“I know you are, you’ve been fighting on hell of a battle.  It’s okay, Angel, go to sleep.  I won’t leave your side, I promise.”

He watches as a tear leaks from her closed eye and falls into her ear.  “I’m scared.  What if I can’t wake up again?”

Bucky shakes his head, even though he knows she can’t see it.  “That won’t happen, Angel.  You’ve woken up – the reason you couldn’t before is because you were in a medically induced coma.  They had a steady stream of anesthesia being administered to keep you under.  That part is done.”

Another tiny nod. “You’ll stay?”

“I’ve got you, Angel. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Okay.”  She stays quiet for a minute.  “Don’t let go.”

“I won’t.”  

Never, ever again.

**I will burn, I will burn for you**

**With fire and fury**

**Fire and fury**

**My heart hurts**

**My heart hurts for you**

**Your love burns within me with fire and fury**

_Bucky’s POV, 4 days later_

He’s nervous – maybe more nervous than he’s ever been.

His Angel is coming home.

Bucky chews on his bottom lip as he looks around his kitchen, running through his mental checklist as he tries to think of anything else he needs to do.  He’d wanted to have a bouquet of her favorite flowers waiting for her, but that asshole tried to kill her with a vase so that idea went out the window.

The sheets and blankets in the guest room are freshly washed, and he brought in her favorite blanket – the one with the satin edging that she always uses for movie nights.  A phone charger is plugged in and waiting on the nightstand. The guest bath has fresh towels, and her bag of toiletries is already on the vanity.  Her clothes have been moved into the closet, but he left them for her to unpack since he’s not sure where she wants things.

Bucky would be lying if he said he hadn’t been tempted – _so incredibly tempted_ – to move her things into his room, but he felt that would be awfully presumptuous.  And it would certainly send the wrong impression; he aches to wake up next to her but refuses to make her feel like there’s an expectation, because there’s not. This is her home now, at least for a little while, and it comes with no strings attached.  He wants her to feel welcome, not caged.

There’s been a definite shift in their relationship, but they haven’t really talked about it yet; between visits from family and friends, the doctors, nurses, physical therapy, and neurology, there hasn’t been time.  The easy banter and almost instinctual closeness is still there, as is the usual warmth, but there’s something else underlying it that feels both familiar and new.   The shy smiles she sends his way are new. The way his hands get clammy when he’s on his way to see her after being away for a few hours is new.  The traded ‘I love yous’ are definitely new, but at the same time it’s like remembering something he’d forgotten; as if it’s always been there, just not in the forefront.  Still, it’s something they need to talk about.  Bucky really, _really_ doesn’t want to mess this up.

“What else?” he mutters…he’s sure he forgot _something_.  Her car is in the garage next to his motorcycle, although she won’t be able to drive for at least another 6 weeks, probably longer.  Her favorite foods and drinks are in the pantry and the fridge like they always are, and her creamer and sweetener are out on the counter next to the coffeemaker.  Her prescriptions for pain maintenance, steroids, and the antibiotics to ward off infection in her lung have been filled and are waiting by the sink.  Her doctor and physical therapy appointments are written in the calendar that hangs by the fridge.  There’s an oxygen tank in the closet just in case.  

Of course, he’s always got his paramedic’s bag nearby.  The only reason her doctors agreed to release her today is because she’s coming to stay with him – she’d insisted that she’d be more comfortable at home with him than at the hospital, and he’d assured them that his medical qualifications would ensure that she’d be well looked after and of course if anything came up he’d get her to the local hospital right away.  Bucky’s got the next four weeks off from work, and then returns when she does at half-time with no on-call or overnight shifts for another four weeks.

Everything seems in order…maybe it’s just her that’s missing.

Pickles rubs up against his legs, so he bends over to pick her up, tucking her under his arm as he stands. 

“What do you think, Pickles? Am I missing anything?”  She meows and suddenly perks her head up, ears swiveling to the front as she wiggles to get loose.  The sound of slamming car doors echo a moment later, so Bucky puts Pickles down and walks to the door, wiping his hands on his jeans as he does so. Damn clammy hands.

Steve is standing right behind her when the door opens, but she’s all he can see.  She’s wearing the plaid pajama pants and purple tank he’d brought to her yesterday, as well as one of his zip-up hoodies; clothes that are easy for her to wear will be necessary until her shoulder is healed enough for her arm to come out of the sling.  She’s also wearing one of Steve’s baseball caps – she must have gotten self-conscious about the spot on the top of her head that had been shaved for surgery.  There are still a few fading bruises, and as she steps through the door Bucky can see that she isn’t moving very gracefully due to the pain.  Still, she’s the most beautiful goddamn thing he’s has ever seen.

“Welcome home, Angel.”

With a beaming smile, she walks into his arms for a hug.  “Thanks for letting me stay with you.”  He’s slightly crestfallen when she pulls away almost immediately, until she says sheepishly, “Sorry, Buck, I really have to pee, and it takes me like 10 minutes to get in and out of my pants with only one hand.”  She stops and blinks.  “That sounded…you know what I meant,” and makes a beeline for the bathroom. He chuckles, and Steve joins in with flat out laughter when they hear from down the hall, “Oh my God, Pickles, a little privacy here?”

Bucky can’t help the broad smile. “Well, the fucker didn’t break her.”

“That’s for damn sure.”

“Thanks for picking her up and bringing her home, Stevie.  I really appreciate it.”

“It’s not a problem at all – you know we take care of our own.”  Steve cocks his head to the side as he puts a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.  “Hey, I know what she means to you, but she’s my friend, too.  If she wasn’t staying with you, she’d probably be staying with Pegs and me.”

Bucky nods as he grabs a towel to wipe down the already spotless kitchen counter one more time. “I know.”

“I can’t believe she was living that life.  I mean, I guessed that she wasn’t happy, but I had no idea things were that bad.”  Steve runs a hand through his hair.  “I should have picked up on it.  I should have pressed the issue…I should have done _something_.”

Bucky shakes his head the entire time.  “Don’t blame yourself.  She didn’t want anyone else to know – it was a fluke that _I_ found out.”  He hangs the towel back up and starts shifting his weight restlessly.  “It’s over now, and she’s safe.  That’s all that matters.  She’s safe, she’s here, and she’s going to be fine.  Just fine.”

Steve snickers a bit. “I haven’t seen you this nervous since you asked out Dottie Sharpe in 8th grade.”

“Stevie, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” Bucky whispers with panic-stricken eyes.  “I feel like I should pass her a note with ‘will you be my girl, check yes or no,’ which seems really stupid considering I’ve told her I love her about 80 times since she woke up – and for some reason that I cannot understand, she seems to love me back – but what _are_ we?”

“It’s a complicated situation,” Steve agrees, “but there’s nothing complicated about your feelings for her, or about your relationship, really.  In fact, your relationship will probably be less complicated because she’s now free of that asshole and you can both be 100% honest about your feelings with yourselves and each other.”

Bucky nods before starting at Steve intently.  “If…if this goes the way I hope it will, we’re gonna have to protect her.  At the fire station, I mean.  I don’t want gossip to start spreading and –“

“Buck, you really don’t need to worry about that.”

“Well, I know how people can be and –“

“Bucky.   _Stop_.” Steve glances over Bucky’s shoulder to make sure she isn’t coming out of the bathroom yet.  “You really don’t need to worry about that.  For starters, just about every full-time member of our crew would take a bullet for her.  You _know_ that.  No one is going to judge her, or you.  That actually reminds me – Okoye told me to tell you that you’d better make a move to make Boss your girl as soon as she’s ready, because apparently everyone at the station has been shipping you two for years.”

Bucky narrows his eyes at Steve.  “What the hell does _that_ mean?”

“Pegs says that it means that they’ve wanted you two to be a thing.  I guess it comes from the word relationship?”  Steve shrugs as he shakes his head.  “And apparently Sam and Clint are the captains of your ship?  I don’t…I don’t really know.  I don’t understand all these references.  I _did_ know that everyone wanted you two to get together, though.”

Bucky blinks; he had been starting to get that impression from the phone calls he’d received since the day Angel was assaulted, but hearing Steve say it outright makes it real. “Really?”

Steve nods.  “Yeah.  So Buck, I promise, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

The soft click of a door opening has both men standing up ramrod straight, both trying to hide their guilty expressions from talking about her.  She shuffles back into the kitchen with an irritated sigh.  “Buck, can I borrow another hoodie?  I had some technical difficulties while washing up.”

He can’t help the smirk when he looks at her – the entire left sleeve is soaked.

“I sort of forgot about the sleeve, and how my arm isn’t in it because of the sling.  It kinda fell in the sink while I was washing my hand. Yes.  Singular.  Hand.  I feel like half a t-rex.”

“Of course, Angel,” Bucky murmurs, trying not to laugh because he remembers very well how frustrating it was to only have one useable arm.

Steve chuckles but steps forward to wrap his arms around her.  “I’m gonna take off, but call if you need anything, alright?  I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Steve,” she hugs him back as best she can with one arm.  

And then it’s just Bucky and his Angel.

He reaches over to carefully help her out of the wet shirt.  “Do you want another hoodie, or do you want to wrap up with a blanket on the couch?” Bucky tries so hard to make his voice sound normal, but doesn’t quite make it.

She nods. “That sounds good to me.”

Ten minutes later finds them sitting in the middle of the couch, feet up next to each other on the coffee table with the shared blanket wrapped around both their shoulders.  His arm can’t be around her shoulders because it’ll hurt her, so he’s got his arm wrapped around her waist instead as she leans into his side.  Bucky’s head rests on top of hers, and he can feel how she completely relaxes into him. Pickles joins them as soon as they stop moving, choosing to settle contentedly in Angel’s lap.

Her voice is sleepy and almost tranquil when she murmurs, “I love you, Bucky.”

One of these days, his cheeks are going to break off from smiling so hard.

“I love you, Angel. Always have, always will.”

Yes, this is good. This is right.

This is everything.


End file.
